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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166749">i'm not the moon (i'm not even a star)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/serinesaccade/pseuds/serinesaccade'>serinesaccade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:30:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>40,810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/serinesaccade/pseuds/serinesaccade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The amnesiac has questions,” says Grantaire. Boyfriend grips the wheel. “Don’t worry, we’ll start with the 200 dollar Jeopardy trivia.” A semi roars past them. “What’s your name?”<br/>The perfect sinew and bones of his fingers relax. “Oh,” he murmurs. Just like that, defenses lowered. “Enjolras.”<br/>“Cool,” Grantaire says. “I’m Grantaire.”<br/>Something happens to Enjolras’ face which, if you zoomed in, might be considered a smile. “I know.”<br/>“How long have we been dating, Enjolras?”<br/>The almost-smile is gone. The gameshow metaphor has become too apt; someone’s lost it all. “That’s complicated.”<br/>Well. Grantaire should’ve known some part of this fairytale was too good to be true. He’s best friends with a streetsmart renegade and someone who wrote him a welcome-back-to-consciousness poem in godawful blue icing on an orange frosted cookie cake. There are nearly ten people who were waiting for him to wake up in a hospital room.<br/>Of course his inexplicable relationship with his supernova hot, socially conscientious boyfriend is ‘complicated.’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>755</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the tropes smashed into each other so hard they gave R memory loss<br/>as usual, this is my trash written for my personal goblin joy. observe this shooting star crashing and burning at your own peril</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Grantaire wakes up, he knows exactly two things: his name is Grantaire, and, according to the frantic whispers of everyone in the room, his boyfriend is incredibly worried about him.</p><p>More of it comes back in bits and pieces. He’s in college. He’s got drymouth that usually indicates he took a handle and possibly a stranger home last night. Despite years of martial arts training, he’s pretty sure he got smacked around during a fight. Judging by the quiet but descriptive musings of the long-haired kid at his bedside, it’s because he was protecting someone. Maybe even two someones. Grantaire’s normal crowd doesn’t require a lot of protection. No, his normal crowd is more like—there.</p><p>A woman with an undercut, gorgeous tattoos, and a scowl is holding his left hand like it’s her purgatory day job.</p><p>“You’re such a fucking idiot,” she tells him.</p><p>“Eponine, be gentle,” says the long-haired poet.</p><p>“Yeah, Eponine,” Grantaire says, trying it out.                                                                               </p><p>Leaning in and patting his hand, Eponine whispers tenderly, “you’re a fucking idiot.” He likes her very much. In fact, he likes the look of every single one of them, even though he has no idea who any of them are. Their faces are enigmatic but dear. They already seem so worried about him—he can’t bear to bring up what even Grantaire can diagnose, with limited medical knowledge, as amnesia.</p><p>So he does what he does best: he bullshits. He complains. He makes self-deprecating jokes that have at least four of them smacking him and declaring they <em>thought he’d grown out of this</em>. Though they seem to be giving him a pass. Unfortunately for Grantaire, he apparently decided to become friends with people whose hippie parents named them after exotic flowers or perhaps just some unfortunate random draws of Scrabble letters. Bossuet. Cosette. Marius. Grantaire has brain damage. This is cruel.</p><p>Luckily, these beautiful mysterious angels keep smiling at him with mounting relief, all of the room relaxing, until Grantaire’s doctor walks in, decked out in scrubs, white coat flaring behind him.</p><p>“Sorry I was gone when you woke, got pulled into something upstairs. Grantaire, I’m so happy to see you awake. May I?” He says, gesturing at Grantaire’s chart, and Grantaire says,</p><p>“Knock yourself out. Seems like I already did.” Eponine squeezes his hand and scoffs very, very quietly. One of the other members of the group, however, seems to find this hilarious. Grantaire mentally checks off his <em>drinking buddy?</em> column. “So, doc, what’s the verdict?”</p><p>His doctor frowns at him across the top of his chart, then says softly, “Grantaire, you sustained a traumatic head injury. I don’t want to tell you it’s good. Of course, we’ll have to wait to hear what your doctor thinks.”</p><p>And this—this is when Grantaire makes his lethal mistake. “I’ve always been a little off, not sure you’ll need that second opinion about a head trauma. Oh—unless you’re one of those student doctors?”</p><p>Serious Doctor had been peering contemplatively down at the clipboard through his glasses. At this, he jerks up. The papers fall from his fingers to lie flat back on the clipboard.</p><p>“Grantaire,” he says, “do you think I’m your doctor?”</p><p>Taking in the coat, the glasses, the scrubs beneath the coat, the—the <em>stethoscope</em>—Grantaire says, “uh, I hope so?”</p><p>“What,” says Eponine flatly, looking between him and the man who is apparently not Grantaire’s doctor.</p><p>“Say my name,” fake-doctor prompts. Ah, shit. Grantaire’s definitely caught.</p><p>“Um,” he says, “Rhododendron?”</p><p>“Interesting,” says Poet, whose name he earlier discerned to probably be some variation of Jean. “Grantaire, this is Combeferre.” See? Weird hippie name. Grantaire should get points for Rhododendron.</p><p>“We’re friends,” says Combeferre. “I just got off shift.”</p><p>“Wow,” says Grantaire. “I’m friends with a doctor? That’s… out of character, but cool.”</p><p>Whoever laughed earlier at his terrible pun has gone ashen. “Grantaire,” he says, “do you know any of us?”</p><p>And despite everything, today really is Grantaire’s lucky day, because instead of having to field that question he gets to watch the most beautiful man in the world bust through his hospital door.</p><p>“He’s awake?” Apollo personified demands. “I think I’ve finally got the health insurance worked out, I came as soon as I—“ They make eye contact. Grantaire kind of wants to break down crying. Explaining the immediate reaction is beyond him.</p><p>Then Apollo is sweeping to his side, funky-named friends parting like a sea, even Poet. Yes, Apollo sweeps towards him, looking absolutely furious, and lays both palms on the bed like he’s about to give Grantaire another head injury. Except—oh. Poet got out of the way so Apollo could climb up on his cot, and take his hand, and hover over Grantaire intensely like he’s something precious.</p><p>“Grantaire,” he says, with strained relief. “You’re awake.” Honestly, Grantaire’s not sure about that. Some part of this has to be a fever dream. “We were so worried. Don’t ever—don’t <em>ever</em> do this again.”</p><p>“Yeah, uh,” Grantaire deflects. “Pinky promise that I’m not considering it.” He doesn’t even know what <em>this</em> is, so it’s not a lie.</p><p>“How do you feel?” The angel murmurs, but it’s not gentle or soft. It flares out in the dark.</p><p>“A little overwhelmed?” Grantaire says honestly.</p><p>There is nodding, shallow and jerking a little, like he’s not quite used to the motion of agreeing with Grantaire.</p><p>“Understandable,” he says. Where their fingers are laced together gets tighter. Grantaire thinks he’s going to die. “We’re so happy you’re awake. You scared us. On a separate matter,” and who says that, who organizes everyday speech like they’re writing an essay? Someone with a face like that could get away with having nothing but slapstick comedy routines dancing around their head. “Your health insurance help desk is an <em>atrocious </em>oxymoron. The experience really highlights the—“</p><p>“Not now,” Grantaire’s not-doctor reigns him in, gentle. “Why don’t you come out in the hallway with me for a minute?”</p><p>Grantaire has known this man for about two seconds, but at this, something sparks in his face, sets off a wildfire of emotion, and Grantaire thinks he could watch for a lifetime.</p><p>“Grantaire has just,” he begins, and from him it’s not petulant, just fierce.</p><p>“I know,” Combeferre says soothingly. “I know, just give me a moment.”</p><p>Standing up to whatever is happening on this avenging angel’s face takes some steel, but Combeferre has it. And—and he <em>yields</em>.</p><p>“I’ll be back,” he swears more than promises to Grantaire. The angel leans away, looking around the room briefly. Probably at the still-shaken faces of their friends. “I’ll be back.”</p><p>“Please,” Grantaire says, and his eyes flick to Grantaire’s again. It’s a testament to how jarring the entire experience is that Grantaire doesn’t attempt a Terminator joke. This fragile reality makes very little sense, so he can forgive himself, and—</p><p>Avenging Angel darts down, eyes blazing, and presses a brief peck to his lips. Despite the intensity of, of <em>everything</em> about him, the kiss is dry and rote. A little awkward. It is still the best kiss Grantaire has ever had.</p><p>Instead of saying, <em>what the fuck!</em> Like he wants to, Grantaire boggles at him briefly before deciding, <em>hey</em>.</p><p>“Do that again?” He says breathlessly, and <em>whoa</em>. Avenging Angel looks at first stunned, then suspicious, but upon staring at Grantaire’s baffled expression for half a second, goes a bright, delighted pink and descends from the heavens once more. Grantaire’s got about half a second of coaxing that marble countenance into melting against him, when one of his supposed friends yanks Apollo off.</p><p>“No,” Musichetta says firmly. “Consent.”</p><p>“I have brain damage,” Grantaire says. “I am trying to give my soul to this angel to carry to heaven, why won’t you let me?” There is silence in the room. “Ohhhh,” he realizes. “Oh, shit, I’m remembering that you said I have a boyfriend.”</p><p>Beside him, Eponine breaks into a snort. “You’re <em>still</em> terrible at context clues in relation to yourself.”</p><p>“I,” avenging angel, for the first time, looks terrified. Terrified on him looks about the same as gearing up for a brawl. “I am your boyfriend?” It’s unsure. Grantaire would be rethinking it too. Grantaire in a hospital bed can’t really hide the tattoos or the scars or cover up the acne on his face.</p><p>“I wanted to do this out in the hall,” Combeferre mourns quietly.</p><p>“Wait,” says Grantaire. “Wait wait wait.”</p><p>“I can’t do this again,” moans Eponine nonsensically.</p><p>“Like <em>my</em> boyfriend?” He stares. The supposed and extremely unlikely boyfriend is not replying. “Like you… without blackmail or bribery... have chosen to date me?”</p><p>“Yes,” apparently-Grantaire’s-boyfriend snaps. Grantaire blinks.</p><p>“Okay, so have we considered he should <em>also</em> be hospitalized for brain trauma? He could have a head wound. The hair would hide it. The hair would hide it <em>so well</em>.”</p><p>“Shut up,” says Jehan, and blushes from the top of their head to their toes. “Sorry, just. I’m getting terrible flashbacks to college Grantaire.”</p><p>“Um,” says Grantaire. “Am I… not?”</p><p>“No,” one of the crowd tells him.</p><p>“So I flunked out?”</p><p>Grantaire’s soon-to-be-ex bares his perfect teeth. Holy shit. A wave of lust and terror both is crashing over Grantaire’s entire body. “<em>No</em>. You graduated last year, Grantaire.”</p><p>“Sweet,” says Grantaire. “This is my first blackout bender resulting in success rather than desolation.”</p><p>There is some kind of noise that is probably the human equivalent of a boiling kettle. “We’re going outside,” says Combeferre abruptly, and hauls unlikely-boyfriend through the door.</p><p>“We’ll start with the bad news,” Jehan says softly. “Who do you think is president?”</p><p>“Obama just got re-elected?”</p><p>Jehan is all sweet sorrow. “I’m really sorry,” he’s told grimly. “Let’s get you caught up.”</p><hr/><p>By his best estimates, his brain’s stuck at the summer preceding his second sophomore year. According to Jehan, that’s about two months before Grantaire’s life went from frat parties and depression to sexy screaming matches with his eventual boyfriend and his social justice crew.</p><p>Grantaire had laughed his ass off. “Me,” he says, wiping away a tear. “<em>I</em> go around crying about saving the whales?”</p><p>Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta glance between each other. Even a dehydrated amnesiac knows they’re all dating.</p><p>“Not really?” Joly says. “If only because endangered species and environmentalism only come up every once in a while. We’re mostly focused on human rights, you know? Which… okay, you don’t cry about those either, but you do speak up when you get in a certain mood.”</p><p>“Oh <em>shit</em>,” says Grantaire. “Am I like… your mascot? Am I your misguided charity case? Oh, no, I’ve got it,” he looks right at Marius, who twitches but smiles, and says, “You guys are younger. I was in charge of buying the alcohol.”</p><p>There is an elongated, terrible silence.</p><p>“Knew it,” Grantaire declares, grinning. “Don’t worry kids, your secret’s safe, I—“ The girl (Cosette?) who’d been holding Marius’ hand stands up and approaches in a cloud of rosewater perfume. Yet another unfairly beautiful person stalking up to his bedside. God, Future Grantaire must’ve really faked it until he made it.</p><p>“Grantaire,” she says. “We’re your friends.”</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire. “I figured. I mean, I’m pretty sure they won’t even let this many visitors in at once, so you guys were willing to break some rules for me. It’s—“ oh no, here it comes, this many people caring about him and he’s “—it’s kind of nice that you’re all here?” Sappy. Future Grantaire is <em>sappy</em>.</p><p>“Bahorel and Feuilly are stuck at work,” Marius points out, probably needlessly for the rest of the group. Grantaire has the feeling he and Captain Obvious are going to be best friends for possibly the first time in whatever their relationship was. “Courf’s traveling back from the sister rally. Combeferre and Enjolras are still outside. We’re not even all here.”</p><p>“Shit, there’s <em>more</em> of you?”</p><p>“Grantaire,” says Cosette firmly again. “We’re your friends, and we love you very much, and we’re here for you. For our sakes, please don’t continue to disparage yourself. You don’t need to test us.”</p><p>What the actual hell. The last time someone told Grantaire they loved him they’d just done a line of cocaine. <em>Dude, this night has been great…we just met but I love you so much, man... do you wanna bang?</em> The earnestness of them as a whole is hard to look at.</p><p>Without realizing it, he <em>had</em> been testing them. A bloody, self-destructive test of <em>how much do you put up with from me, exactly?</em> The answer to that from people is usually not a firm <em>we love you, dumbass, sit here and let us</em>.</p><p>“O-kay?” Grantaire croaks.</p><p>“I know it’s different,” Jehan whispers conspiratorially. “You’ll get used to it. Promise.”</p><p>“It’ll be easier once you’re back at home,” Joly says. “Medical studies show environment is a good trigger. Obviously you need to be gentle with yourself, though. No boxing. Or dancing for a bit. Ooh, actually, that’s such a shame, it’d be interesting to see if you’ve still got procedural memory even if your explicit memory is—“</p><p>“Dear,” Musichetta says.</p><p>“I’ll be your lab rat later,” Grantaire promises behind his hand. “But I expect treats.” Joly dissolves into giggles. Grantaire’s getting the impression that keeping track of how often his jokes achieve this will be a task.</p><p>Holy shit, one of them’s a doctor, one of them is potentially a scientist, Marius looks like a puppy could outwrestle him, they fight for social justice, and the only one who seems to have any street cred is—</p><p>“Eponine,” he asks desperately, “Eponine, are all of my friends nerds?” There’s a snort.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s the actual bad news about the future,” she says sardonically. “You finally embrace that you’ve always been one.”</p><hr/><p>Happily, seatbelts haven’t changed much in a few years, which is how much time Grantaire’s lost. Despite this, full-of-regret-boyfriend tugs on his and clicks it in for him.</p><p>“My body is still capable of basic tasks,” Grantaire tells him. He’s been discharged from the hospital for a full twenty minutes now, and they kept him for observation a while before that.</p><p>Unfortunately, those blonde curls and fiery eyes are about two inches away from Grantaire’s face, so whatever else Grantaire had been hoping to say dissolves like hot sugar in his mouth, an overload of sweetness.</p><p>“You’re right,” boyfriend says, and moves back. His hands sit at ten and two on the wheel. Grantaire bets he drives like a grandma.</p><p>Apparently he does drive like a grandma, though one who’s forgotten her glasses.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Grantaire says as someone aggressively honks at them. “I’m beginning to wonder if this is how I ended up in the hospital in the first place.”</p><p>“You know it was a rally,” boyfriend says tonelessly. “I’m not good at driving. Please don’t distract me.”</p><p>They sit in silence for five terrifying minutes.</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire. “I have questions.”</p><p>Boyfriend grips the wheel. “Okay.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, we’ll start with the 200 dollar questions.” A semi roars past them. “What’s your name?”</p><p>The perfect sinew and bones of his fingers relax.</p><p>“Oh,” he murmurs. Just like that, defenses lowered. “Enjolras.”</p><p>“Cool,” Grantaire says. “I’m Grantaire.”</p><p>Something happens to Enjolras’ face which, if you zoomed in, might be considered a smile. “I know.”</p><p>“How long have we been dating, Enjolras?”</p><p>The almost-smile is gone. The gameshow metaphor has become too apt; someone’s lost it all. “That’s complicated.”</p><p>Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Grantaire should’ve known some part of this fairytale was too good to be true. He’s best friends with a badass and someone who wrote him a welcome-back-to-consciousness poem in godawful blue icing on an orange frosted cookie cake. There are nearly ten incredible people who were waiting for him to wake up in a hospital room.</p><p>Of course his inexplicable relationship with his supernova hot, socially conscientious boyfriend is ‘complicated.’</p><p>“Let me guess,” Grantaire says wryly. “The sex is good?”</p><p>From the way he’s been driving, Grantaire doesn’t think he can be blamed for barely bracing himself, when the car rolls to the shoulder of the road, screeching slowly to a stop.</p><p>“Uh, did we get a flat?” Grantaire panics, “are you okay?”</p><p>When he looks over, the driver’s seat is empty, and the door is slamming. The pit of his stomach roils. He stares, helpless, as Enjolras stalks around the car and yanks open his door. He’s holding onto the frame, leaning, lithe and perfectly posed without even trying. The good looks and tight jaw on the side of the road at night scream <em>serial</em> <em>killer!</em> but Grantaire’s heart is pounding <em>mine mine mine.</em></p><p>“Okay, message received, sex is terrible,” Grantaire sputters, though the image before him argues that for Grantaire, at least, it must be excellent. “That’s fine, it’s chill, is one of us dealing with erectile dysfunction and we’re sensitive about it because I swear I didn’t—“</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts, and rubs his forehead against his hand where it rests on the frame, clearly pained. “I’m not sure how to convey this to you.”</p><p>“Um,” Grantaire says. “With low-scoring Boggle words for my addled head?”</p><p>Enjolras <em>glares</em> at him, remembers he’s meant to be a caretaker, and tries to soften it. The whole process looks ridiculous. “You’re extremely capable, Grantaire.”</p><p>“Okay, I don’t know what it is with you guys and the policing of my self-deprecating humor, but I actually mean this one. Pretty sure I’ve got stitches.” Grantaire sighs, stares forward into the blur of red and white lights on the highway. “I kind of—I kind of just want to go home?”</p><p>Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He does, however, seem to curl in on himself.</p><p>“Yes,” he gives in, finally. Simply. “Let’s get you home.”</p><hr/><p>Apparently, <em>home</em> translates to <em>my home</em>. Grantaire could never afford this shit.</p><p>“Do you have branded cereal?” He wants to know. Enjolras squints at him.</p><p>“Do you want cereal at,” he checks his watch, because despite the functional phone in his pocket, he still wears one, “ten at night?”</p><p>“No,” Grantaire concedes. “Though dinner foods are a social construct. I eat what I want, when I want.”</p><p>“Everything is a social construct,” Enjolras says, locking the door and hanging the keys up on a carved wooden shelf that Grantaire can’t quite make out in the dark hallway. Grantaire would laugh—it’s funny—but he’s not entirely sure it’s a joke. “How do you feel about ice cream?”</p><p>“Passionate,” Grantaire admits.</p><p>“Mm. Homemade’s in the blue container on the top left of the freezer,” Enjolras says. “We have rocky road too.”</p><p>Kicking his shoes off, and rearranging them into a neater pile with a sheepish look up at Enjolras, he plods into the apartment. Now that it’s come up, he’s famished. It’s odd—Grantaire can’t remember being this hungry, aside from the munchies. Sometimes he’d go days without eating a proper meal, if he got anxious enough, but—apparently his stomach’s used to food now. Weird. Pulling out the homemade and popping the top off, he snags a spoon and bowl from the drying rack and returns to the front door.</p><p>“Definitely not complaining about the ice cream,” Grantaire says, “but also, I could really go for some wine.”</p><p>Enjolras shrugs off a red jacket which, like the rest of his ensemble, only serves to beautify him to levels previously unknown to mortal men.</p><p>“The house is dry,” Enjolras informs him, shutting the closet door. Admittedly, Grantaire has been hoping to figure out what exactly a joking Enjolras looks like, but he didn’t think it’d be this.</p><p>“Beer?” He says. Lacking wine alone is a better explanation.</p><p>“If you want it, you go out with our friends.”</p><p>“Okay,” Grantaire says. “To check: we’re still in our twenties, right? I didn’t amnesiac myself into a decent-looking middle aged man?”</p><p>Enjolras does not smile. “No. The house is dry. Your rule, not mine. It’s one thing Combeferre says I should hold you to. Something about,” he’s sorting mail into holders, unwrapping his scarf from his neck. The domesticity is odd to watch. “That crossed boundary being hard to traverse if you regain your memory. Also, you’ve now had a brain injury, so no alcohol.”</p><p>Damn. Grantaire had been relying on it. Fortunately, future Grantaire seems to be able to skip withdrawal so far—that ache, that deep well in him that sometimes needs filled, seems gone.</p><p>“Does Combeferre moonlight as a psychologist?”</p><p>“No,” Enjolras says. “That’s another one of our friends.” Makes sense. Internally, Grantaire flips through them to try and decide which one.</p><p>“Wait,” says Grantaire. “I get a house rule?”</p><p>There’s nothing more for Enjolras to set down, to put away. In front of him, he knits his fingers together, looks off at a door.</p><p>“This is my apartment, but you’ve been here a lot lately. And I don’t drink much anyway.”</p><p><em>It’s complicated</em>, Enjolras had said. Based off their friends’ impression, the photo collage he’s seeing up on the wall, the funny drawing of an evil king on a Post-It on the freezer… Well. Grantaire’s been a fuckbuddy. He’s been part of a relationship where he was a boyfriend just so the girl’s friends would stop asking the inevitable questions, even though she’d made it very clear it was a meaningless title. He’s been a rebound and a drunken mistake and he’s been the “dangerous one” and every other variant of bastard boytoy in existence.</p><p>A bite of the ice cream reveals it’s homemade for sure, creamy and rich. Probably done with fresh vanilla bean extract. He wants to moan, but instead he shoves in another bite.</p><p>His past relationships didn’t—didn’t have him visiting constantly. Or leaving doodles around the house and extra pairs of shoes by the front door. They didn’t result in a painting with <em>R</em> emblazoned in the corner being framed above the couch.</p><p>So when Enjolras says, stiff and dire, <em>it’s complicated</em>… Grantaire is starting to suspect that meant, <em>it used to be real.</em></p><p>Probably the best years of Grantaire’s life, and he forgets them all just to crash in when Enjolras is about to break up with him. At least Grantaire has the one thing.</p><p>“When everyone left and my actual doctor pulled you out to discuss home care,” he says, “the nurse gave me a nice stern talk about ‘strenuous activity.’ Apparently we have a greenlight for certain… activities.”</p><p>“Like eating your ice cream too fast?” Enjolras says dryly. He sits on the couch, and then, with a jerk of his head, indicates the spot beside him is meant for Grantaire.</p><p>First it’s disturbed driving, and now it’s blatant avoidance. Something is definitely up with them in bed.</p><p>Still, Grantaire goes and takes the seat beside him. He quietly eats his ice cream while Enjolras jabs at his phone, finishing up with the satisfying <em>blurb</em> jingle of a group message.</p><p>“Told everyone we got you back safely,” Enjolras says. After a few moments, “once you’re recovered Courf wants to, and I quote, ‘finally beat you at Never Have I Ever.’ Also, he hopes you’re doing well.”</p><p>“Uhm,” says Grantaire, staring down at the melted remains in his bowl, “great. Him too?” He stirs, once, balancing the bowl on his knee.</p><p>Fingers skim over his calf, his knuckles, and Grantaire jolts, but Enjolras looks equally startled, pulling back with the dish in hand, and blurts, “I’ve got it. Just—just sit, Grantaire.”</p><p>Quiet clinking sounds from the kitchen. Grantaire tucks his chin into his knees, bounces his foot up and down on the couch. For a brief moment, he panics—homework—just to remember that apparently he is graduated and that no longer exists.</p><p>Enjolras is unfairly beautiful. Earlier today, Enjolras had spent twenty minutes in the hallway with Combeferre yelling about the injustice of the American health insurance system—with fucking <em>references</em>—as stress relief. Their update on the current president, begun by Jehan, led to a three-pronged rant on abuse of executive power. The photo collage here shows them in a hundred different places—carrying banners and sprawled over posters with flecks of paint across their cheeks. Most of the pictures feature at least one of their friends, but there are a precious private few that he can tell they took of each other. Stolen moments. There’s old philosophy and mythology and political books scattered throughout the room’s sagging bookshelf. If Grantaire asked him about Plato or Aristotle or some historical uprising, he bets Enjolras would know.</p><p>Who the hell is he? Why the hell was he dating Grantaire? There’s no way Grantaire has pulled himself together <em>that</em> much.</p><p>Judging by the kiss earlier and the tension in the air, sexual attraction is still a good bet, despite the general awkwardness surrounding it. They’ve got that in droves.</p><p>Enjolras settles back down on the couch, eyes flicking to the book Grantaire grabbed. “Oh,” he says, after a quick breath, “um, you don’t like that one. Rosseau.”</p><p>“Hm?” Grantaire turns it over in his hands. “I know. I read this last year. Uh—last year for me. It actually wasn’t so bad.”</p><p>Enjolras’ brow furrows. “I recommended it to you. I loaned you this copy so we could debate. It took us over three lunches to discuss.”</p><p>Great. Apparently the answer to ‘how did I lock this guy down’ is ‘compulsive lying,’ which really doesn’t blend well with severe memory loss.</p><p>“The cover looks different than I remember?” Grantaire offers up weakly.</p><p>Enjolras frowns at the floor, which at least helps lessen the sear of disappointment.</p><p>“So,” Grantaire says. “Two hundred dollar question?”</p><p>“I already told you my name.”</p><p>God, Grantaire wants to laugh. He still can’t tell if this is Enjolras joking or not, so he coughs into his wrist instead.</p><p>“Yeah. So. The trio today—Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta—totally dating, right?”</p><p>“Yes. They’re very happy,” he says contentedly, then adds, “Cosette and Marius as well.” He blinks. “I mean, Cosette and Marius are—a separate couple.”</p><p>“I figured all fifteen of us weren’t dating each other,” Grantaire acknowledges.</p><p>“We’ve both considered and been accused of it." He scrapes one finger down his own thigh, contemplative. "It’s the extreme codependence.”</p><p>Grantaire coughs into his wrist again, harder this time.</p><p>“No one else is official, but there are,” he shrugs, “interested parties. Or so I’ve been told. Courfeyrac knows these things.” There’s a pause. “You did too.”</p><p>“Gossip Girl, XOXO,” Grantaire replies, trying to add the right amount of sulk.</p><p>“Mm,” Enjolras says, looking down at his lap. “I know you like that show, but we do oppose elite socialites.” There’s something in the angle of his face, the way he presses his lips together. How much he clearly loves his friends. The fact that he’s got Descartes and Chomsky dog-eared but he’s willing to listen to Grantaire’s take on soapy dramas is—Grantaire doesn’t know what to do.</p><p>“Are we happy?” He manages to ask, even though he knows the answer. Enjolras opens his mouth, closes it.</p><p>“It’s complicated,” he repeats, quieter this time.</p><p>“That’s fine,” says Grantaire. It’s really not. “The whole amnesia thing is pretty complicated too. Just, um. Say the word and I’ll stop.”</p><p>From beneath golden lashes, Enjolras looks up at him warily. “What?”</p><p>Grantaire leans forward, fingers still clutching the red spine of the book, and kisses him. Beneath him Enjolras goes still, probably with surprise, making a muffled hum. Grantaire hums back and shifts, angles. A hand flies up between them, and Grantaire almost startles, but it rifles through Grantaire’s hair as a tease of a touch before rethinking and fluttering down to settle on Grantaire’s shoulder. Squeezes warmly.</p><p>It’s <em>so good</em>. Grantaire has kissed plenty of strangers, and this is nothing like that. Enjolras’ fingers are flexing on his shoulder, his thumb tracing carefully over Grantaire’s collarbone.</p><p>Then, as quick as it began, Enjolras uses that hand to push away.</p><p>“No,” he says. “No.”</p><p>“Oh,” Grantaire breathes, instantly feeling awful. “I—I’m sorry. In retrospect I probably should’ve asked, but we already…kissed. Also, there’s just a lot of…” He gestures between them. Enjolras stares at him. “Tension?”</p><p>The tension increases, but that’s just because Enjolras tightens his already firm frame, shoulders going ramrod straight.</p><p>“I know,” Enjolras mutters. “I know. We don’t always get on, especially not when we first met.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” Grantaire ventures, sincere. Today he’s gained more than he thought possible. It’d be overly optimistic to ask for Enjolras in any way; Grantaire can already tell. In every line and word of him, Enjolras is awe-inspiring. “I just figured I was here, and it seems like you’re stuck with me for the night, so I thought.”</p><p>Grantaire can’t really articulate what he’d thought.</p><p>Enjolras’ fingers are pressed to his lips so hard they’re going white, and he’s somewhere else. There’s a reason Grantaire tries to avoid musing on things too much; it never turns out well for him. After a sharp intake of breath, Enjolras quietly releases: “you aren’t my boyfriend.”</p><p>It almost stings. But Grantaire was expecting it. Future Grantaire finishes his paintings and is good to his friends and somehow managed to date Enjolras for a while. Grantaire doesn’t know how he achieved it, but he knows that—that isn’t him. And maybe, without the perfect storm of circumstances, it never will be again.</p><p>“I know I’m not,” Grantaire says. “But technically, I could be someday? I’m… the closest we’ve got. And we don’t know when he’s coming back. Just—“</p><p>Enjolras presses forward on the couch, the hand on Grantaire’s knee silencing him instantly. The Rosseau falls to the floor. When he speaks, it’s with deep conviction.</p><p>“No.” Enjolras is shaking. “No, Grantaire, you don’t understand. <em>You aren’t my boyfriend</em>.”</p><p>And what does he say to that?</p><p>“Labels… are also… an unnecessary social construct?” He guesses. “Or.” This fits a lot better. “Breaking up because of the memory loss does make sense. Unless you… broke up with me yesterday?” That’d make sense too. The poor guy, breaking up with Future Grantaire and not managing to tell all their respective friends the news before Grantaire’s throwing himself into a knock-out fight and getting amnesia. Then he’s getting commanded by doctors to provide his ex with a ‘familiar environment’ because Grantaire couldn’t handle himself.</p><p>Hell, Grantaire wouldn’t do that on purpose, but he’s never faced the prospect of losing Enjolras before. Maybe he’s that pathetic.</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras chokes out, rough, but doesn’t manage to finish the thought. Instead Enjolras stands, and paces, hands running through his golden curls, dragging his palms down his face like he can scrub it raw. Abruptly, he stops, and then storms to a different closet and starts yanking folded blankets out of it. So he’s one of those people who can’t stand to not take action. Grantaire has always appreciated that.</p><p>(He’s beginning to suspect he appreciates everything about Enjolras.)</p><p>Kicking back on the couch, wondering if he’ll be able to fit in anything of Enjolras’ to sleep and whether it’s worth it to even ask, he settles. When Enjolras firmly sets blankets atop the couch arm, he says, “thanks for the ice cream. And letting me stay, even with… everything.” The potential breakup. “‘S comfy.”</p><p>The poor top blanket gets twisted up in Enjolras’ hand.</p><p>“Do you think you’re sleeping on the couch?”</p><p>Mm. Context clues have been recommended to him. “No? I’ll… sleep in there with you?”</p><p>“You don’t <em>know</em> <em>me</em>,” Enjolras bursts, and then, “Grantaire, <em>I’m </em>sleeping on the couch.”</p><p>Grantaire sits up. “Fuck no, dude, you brought me over here and—“</p><p>“You just got discharged from the <em>hospital</em>. Why do you think I’d have you sleep on a couch?”</p><p>“I’ve slept on plenty of couches.” Couchsurfing was definitely a thing, especially for those months after his one shitty landlord kicked him out. It’s even a pull-out, and he’s not paying money for it, an improvement on what Grantaire’s done in the past. Enjolras’ couch looks brand new. Definitely a stain or two, but it’s not ripped up and clearly they don’t regularly have sex on it, so it’s practically an IKEA display. “It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>Through his teeth, Enjolras grits, “it’s a big deal to me.”</p><p>“I’m beginning to suspect everything is a big deal to you,” Grantaire says.</p><p>He doesn’t mean badly by it. It’s an observation; just a fact he’s learning. Even a fact that Grantaire…admires. Apathy has been a huge part of his life, and Enjolras? Enjolras seems like a storybook. Like a hero of the small. Enjolras cares so much it’s practically exploding out of him.</p><p>This time, it seems to ricochet inwards at Grantaire’s words.</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras says, going cool and firm. “That’s exactly what I’m like.” Not a challenge or a tease. Just an immovable statement, resigned. Dealing with Grantaire when Enjolras can’t—out of pity—eviscerate him verbally is clearly a strain. “Let’s get you to bed.”</p><p>In all of that caring, Grantaire may be the one area in which he lacks passion. And that’s—Grantaire doesn’t know what to do about that. Or at least, Grantaire doesn’t know what to do in a way that doesn’t start a fight, or involve alcohol.</p><p><em>It’s fine</em>, he tells himself. Until this morning, he technically didn’t even <em>know</em> Enjolras. Obsessions and addictions don’t form that quick, even for him. Right?</p><p>Like a maniac, Enjolras fluffs a pillow, and lays out plaid pajama pants, smoothing and tucking in the corners of the covers even though the whole goal is to get Grantaire in them. Oh, god. He smells so good. There’s a book on Marxism carefully marked for a place on the bedside table, and an open booklet of something called <em>Visual Logic Puzzles for the Right and Left Brained</em>, scribbled all over in two pen colors. What the fuck.</p><p>“Um,” he says, “Your duvet is interesting.” It’s bright red, laced through with geometric patterns.</p><p>“You picked it,” Enjolras says. “Interior decoration isn’t my area of expertise.”</p><p>As an artist, Grantaire knows the importance of the matrix of paintings, what’s beyond the front and center foreground. Those blurry-soft background details that make everything real. But someone—someone is painting this wrong. Nothing is making sense. Like a creeping, fraying edge or a stain, Grantaire is all over this apartment he doesn’t belong in. That he’s about to lose.</p><p>Enjolras exits, shutting the bedroom door, and Grantaire realizes he’s been dismissed. Grappling with his jeans, stiff and probably due for a wash, he manages to switch to pajamas and then subsequently ruin the crisp integrity of the bed, sliding in. He’s trying to get comfortable, to calm himself down in the weirdly unfamiliar, when there’s a knock.</p><p>It’s the guy’s own house. Surely, Grantaire doesn’t need to—a knock sounds again. “Come in?” Grantaire tries, and the door swings open. For a moment he watches Grantaire, trying his best not to disrupt the sheets too badly even though all he wants is to stick a leg out into the open air, and doesn’t say anything. “What’s up, my generous host?”</p><p>“Do you need anything?”</p><p>Grantaire needs things to start making sense. “All set.”</p><p>“Good.” He doesn’t come further in. “I’ll be outside. Goodnight, Grantaire.”</p><p>And then he doesn’t leave.</p><p>He’s too bright to look at directly, so Grantaire stares blithely up at the ceiling. Forces out: “hey." He has to. "They said the chances of his memories returning are pretty good. And once he’s back we can—we can break up properly and I’ll be out of your hair.”</p><p>There’s that frustrated noise again. It’s all Grantaire can seem to elicit.</p><p>“In the morning,” Enjolras says, from the far-off dark, “we really need to talk.”</p><p>Then he leaves.</p><p>Fisting his hands in the sheets, against his better judgment, Grantaire listens helplessly for the sounds from the other room. The pull-out couch sliding open with a <em>pop</em>. Rustling of blankets being laid out. Probably the fluffing of a second pillow—god, Grantaire didn’t know real people did that, but he’s already warm for it. Blinds being shut against the streetlights; the sigh of the cushions as he settles in.</p><p>In his mind’s eye, Grantaire can see it all. The whole glorious picture of it, that unfamiliar domesticity. But the next sound—he can’t. He really can’t.</p><p>Rattled wet pulls of air, muffled and torn sobs.</p><p>There are fables where the gods cry. Grantaire would give anything for it to just be a fable. For it not to be happening in the other room while he, a stranger, steals the body of someone who might know what to do. Even if it wasn’t readily welcomed, anymore.</p><p><em>Come on</em>, he urges himself. <em>Come back. I don’t know how to be you. I don’t even know where to begin.</em></p><p>Staring off into the dark, he waits.</p><p>The universe, that bastard, gives him nothing in reply.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Grantaire remeets the ABC, Enjolras continues to elude any kind of understanding, and we all suffer</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>look i've written over 15,000 words in the last 3 days so I have just upped the chapter count and thrown myself over the writer's waterfall to my doom<br/>i am so sorry<br/>this chapter does not bring sweet relief but hopefully the story will soon. i do not intend to keep Grantaire in the dark much longer. he &amp; e are just bein obtuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Instead of stale cigarettes and sour alcohol, Grantaire wakes up to the smell of clean sheets and coffee.</p><p>“Mmpf,” he says, trying to roll out of bed, but he’s vacuum-sealed in by covers he knows <em>he</em> didn’t tuck that tight.<em> The fuck</em>, he thinks to himself, scrubbing at his hair, but unfortunately his question gets answered when his fingers snag on something that’s not hair. “<em>Ow</em>, mother<em>fucker</em>!”</p><p>Though Grantaire hadn’t been paying attention, he hears it, when the quiet taps of life coming from behind the wall abruptly stop. There are footsteps, and the door’s wrenching open, and—<em>Oh</em>. It’s coming back in a rush. Well, obviously not—all of it.</p><p>No, Grantaire’s firmly at Day 2 of his existence as an amnesiac.</p><p>Possibly-his-ex-boyfriend Enjolras is brandishing a spatula like a weapon. He’s got one gravity-defying curl veering off from its resting place against a defined cheekbone. He’s—breathtaking.</p><p>Their relationship is <em>complicated</em>. This is not fair.</p><p>“What happened?” Enjolras demands. “Grantaire? Are you all right?” No. Grantaire’s pretty sure the answer to that is no.</p><p>“Peachy,” Grantaire says. “I just won a game of hide-and-seek with my stitches.”</p><p>Enjolras relaxes, which means his shoulders move from up by his ears to perfect posture. In a minute he’s across the room, setting the spatula carefully down atop the nightstand and moving to kneel next to Grantaire on the mattress.</p><p>“Is it bleeding?”</p><p>“Dunno,” says Grantaire, with extra disinterest sprinkled in to disguise how his heart kicks when Enjolras scoots closer, cautiously running one hand through his dark curls, lifting up.</p><p>“I don’t see anything. Good.” Despite his declaration he doesn’t move away, carding his fingers through another patch in a way that makes Grantaire dizzy. “Joly wanted to check on them every day. I’m hoping you’re okay with that. It’d set him at peace.”</p><p>“Um, sure? I’ll bleed on him if he wants?” Grantaire manages. Don’t doctors charge for that kind of thing? Wait, is Joly <em>also</em> a doctor? On evaluation… yes. That makes sense, he thinks. Where is that Marius kid when he needs him, to comment on basic details? “I hope they sowed it up tight, my brain’s small and it’d just fall right out of—“</p><p>“Turn,” Enjolras commands abruptly, and fucking—<em>manhandles him</em> into twisting further at the waist.</p><p>“Jesus, cheer made me flexible, but not this flexible,” Grantaire complains, as Enjolras continues on his skull inspection. Huh. He doesn’t comment on the cheerleading—he must already know. It’s going to take a minute to get used to having someone know him. “Hey, find any bugs yet? I’m about ready for breakfast.”</p><p>“Hm,” comes the acknowledgment from behind him. Maybe he’s got his miniature smile on. Suddenly, Grantaire is dying to know. Except he can’t— that would involve looking directly at Enjolras’ face, which is daunting. Not negotiable. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>Oh. “It wasn’t a hint,” Grantaire feels obligated to say. “You don’t need to feed me again.”</p><p>In the corner of his eye, Enjolras frowns. “Again?”</p><p>“Ice cream,” Grantaire reminds him. “I reiterate: do you also have brain damage?”</p><p>Enjolras sighs, detangling his fingers, and Grantaire feels the spring of it as he gets off the bed. “You made the ice cream.”</p><p>Grantaire picked out the duvet. In the light of day, he can see the curtains are a complementary shade of red, so—he probably chose them too. The apartment continues to make no reasonable sense. Swinging his legs out from the bed, he stands. Nope. Still doesn’t make sense from up here. He needs a distraction.</p><p>“There’s probably something philosophical in this,” Grantaire muses. “If I make ice cream at twenty-six, but twenty-one year old me scarfs it down, is this the closest to time travel the human race has gotten?” Unresponsive, Enjolras picks up the spatula, and strides towards the kitchen. Grantaire is getting the feeling that Enjolras just moves through life and he trails behind, shouting various pieces of bullshit that all really mean: <em>please slow down. Please wait for me.</em></p><p>“Combeferre likes deep space and time distortion,” Enjolras says, at a normal volume, like Grantaire is not chasing him. “He could probably tell you.”</p><p>“Spare me the e=mc<sup>2</sup>,” Grantaire says. “My white matter is bruised purple.” He expects Enjolras to drop it. Instead, Enjolras scowls at whatever’s in the frying pan, <em>hmms</em>, and replies,</p><p>“I think the closest humanity gets to time travel is chronosthesia.”</p><p>If Grantaire hadn’t taken Psychology 101 last year and read the entire textbook one hilarious weekend while high, he’d have no idea what Enjolras was talking about. That, or the ability to pick apart a Greek god root word. <em>Chronosthesia.</em> “Mentally visualizing future events is <em>not </em>time travel,” he contests.</p><p>“And you’re not twenty-one,” Enjolras counters, raising one eyebrow. “Biologically.”</p><p>“Okay, just because I can predict what it looks like to lob a balled up piece of paper in a trash can,” Grantaire picks up a cheese wrapper from the kitchen counter, where they’ve ended up, and crumples it before evaluating his options. “Scoot a little left.” Enjolras obliges. “You, the pantry door, then the trash can,” Grantaire tells him.</p><p>“Wha—“</p><p>He throws, startling a noise from Enjolras, and as predicted, makes it. “Baller. Peer-verified science experiment,” he declares to an Enjolras eye roll. “Time travel? Nay! I used my knowledge of the past and imagination to do that, not my psychic skills. Also, apes can visualize too. It’s totally not the closest <em>humanity </em>gets to—“</p><p>Enjolras sets the spatula on the counter, and walks out of the kitchen.</p><p>“—time travel?”</p><p>God. No wonder Grantaire feels healthier. Between the lack of beer and constant marathon to keep up with Enjolras, he’s basically in Olympic training. When he makes it to the living room he expects Enjolras to be wielding a novel about chronosthesia to help illustrate his talking points.</p><p>Instead, Enjolras is putting on his red coat like it’s armor.</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire. “Late for work?”</p><p>Head jerking up, Enjolras blinks. His blue eyes look a little—red. Grantaire thinks of how long it took the crying last night to slow, and has to turn his gaze to his shoes.</p><p>“No work today,” Enjolras said. “I—I took off this morning. But,” he gestures towards the kitchen, “I burned what I was trying to make for breakfast, and there’s a bakery down the street, so.” He can’t seem to get the last button. After a long, frustrating fumble, he adds, “I also need to walk.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Grantaire. “I like walking.” What had started as a necessity—buses and metro can only take you so far, and sometimes it’s not worth the price—became one of his loves. Seeing every shopfront. Every evolving menu. Waving to people he saw everyday until they waved back.</p><p>Enjolras seems to give up on the button. “I know.”</p><p>Something about all of it dissipates even the thought Grantaire’s having of <em>can I come?</em> They stare at each other, supremely awkward, and then Enjolras opens his perfect mouth.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says. “The similarities are affecting me.” He bites his lip. “I remember you as so different back then, but in certain ways you’re… not. In some ways you changed less than I thought you did, and how we interacted at first… it’s not something I like to dwell on. Sometimes, I almost forget you’re not…”</p><p>“Him,” Grantaire finishes. Enjolras doesn’t reply, because the answer is clear.</p><p>Apparently Future Grantaire didn’t manage to change much at all. That’s probably why Enjolras wants to break up with him.</p><p>“It’s fine,” says Grantaire. “I get it. I’m an asshole. A fun asshole,” he adds with a smirk. “But one all the same.”</p><p>Enjolras replies, “don’t speak about yourself that way. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”</p><p>“Awesome,” says Grantaire. “Promise I won’t pilfer all your silverware and go on the lam.”</p><p>Distracted with his shoes, Enjolras looks up and drolly comments, “if you did I’d consider it a gift. To me. Half the silverware is Star Wars themed.”</p><p>Grantaire doesn’t laugh at the potential joke. After another moment, Enjolras turns and opens the door.</p><p>There’s that disorientation again. That perpetual fall of <em>what is the explanation for this apartment</em>? <em>What’s the explanation for us?</em></p><p>“Bye, honey,” is all Grantaire manages, and then Enjolras leaves.</p><hr/><p>When Enjolras returns, it’s with a delicious-smelling paper bag, and also two medicine bottles.</p><p>“You don’t strike me as a dealer,” says Grantaire. “But I’m not going to say no.”</p><p>Enjolras narrows his eyes, then says, “you’re on medication. The hospital cleared it. I brought over the booklets so you can read about—”</p><p>Grantaire pops one of each, which is what the script on the outside says. He waits a moment. All that changes is Enjolras’ face, which goes into a scowl. “This is not the good kush,” he informs.</p><p>“Eat,” Enjolras sighs.</p><p>The pastries are excellent, but halfway through enjoying his and trying to figure out how to ask again for their relationship status, their phones buzz at the same time.</p><p>“Weather alert?”</p><p>“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says easily, without even looking. “He was due home now.” Enjolras probably has an alarm system set up on his phone. A calendar. <em>Courfeyrac home 10am. Combeferre to apartment from work 5pm. Grantaire kicked to curb 2pm.</em></p><p>“Oh, chill.” Grantaire has been carrying his phone around in his pocket out of sheer habit, but to be honest, he’s locked out. Apparently Future Grantaire uses more complicated passwords than 1111. And who’s he gonna contact? It’s not like Floreal was texting him back in 2013; she’s definitely not texting him now. “Do you think I can get this factory reset?”</p><p>Enjolras chews his pastry for a moment, then says, “why?”</p><p>Grantaire flips the screen, tries a random number series. <em>Incorrect password</em>. Enjolras lays his hand out flat on the table, and Grantaire slips it over before saying, “hack it.” Enjolras does that gentle-breath-through-the-nose thing that Grantaire suspects may be a grudging laugh.</p><p><em>Goddamit, don’t be his birthday,</em> Grantaire pleads.</p><p>“0615,” Enjolras confirms, sliding it back, and returns to eating his pastry. It may or may not be his birthday. That’s no longer a concern, because the background photo is just Enjolras sitting in a red hoodie, suppressing a smile, and all of Grantaire’s apps are stacked on his head and shoulders. Can’t be more gooey than that.</p><p>Enjolras knows his password. Enjolras is his phone background. They are so far from the territory of exclusive fuckbuddies or casual on-and-off boyfriends. They're in the ocean. They're on a whole other planet. It's terrifying him.</p><p>“I’m gonna stalk myself now,” Grantaire announces.</p><p>“Courfeyrac first,” Enjolras casually orders. So Grantaire dutifully opens the most recent of his—<em>shit</em>.</p><p>He has over fifty messages. Not a single one of them are an unknown number or <em>O’Malley’s Pub Blond XXX</em>. Ten are just a text chain from Jehan, a poem that Grantaire will read later followed by a jarring photo of them in both plaid and polka dots. Eponine’s reads <em>congrats on unlocking your phone</em>. There’s at least one from everyone at the hospital, and three memes from Bahorel, who Grantaire hasn’t even met.</p><p>Courfeyrac’s message screams: <em>HOUSEWARMING PARTY AT GRANTAIRE’S. 7PM MY LOVES. BRING SHOW AND TELL WITH A MEMORY FOR OUR BOY</em></p><p>“Did I move?” Grantaire asks. “Do I live with him?”</p><p>“No and no,” Enjolras says helpfully, continuing to type into his own phone without a care in the world.</p><p>“So he’s inviting people over to <em>my</em> house?” Enjolras blinks at him. “Dude, I’m not really complaining, it’s just not normal.”</p><p>This is the first sign of sheepishness in him that Grantaire’s ever seen. “I’ve known Courfeyrac since we were kids. He is my normal.” There’s an ease, in that. Between the texts and Enjolras himself and everyone else, there is a casual familiarity, an assured intimacy. Courfeyrac invites their whole crew over to Grantaire’s apartment. He calls Grantaire <em>our boy</em>.</p><p><em>tell ur boyfriend we want spicy salsa</em>, says Courfeyrac’s private message, so his phone is capable of lowercase. Evidently Courfeyrac inserts a middleman for requests when he doesn’t need one, and doesn’t for requests where he probably should. <em>love u. can’t wait to see u in person so we can remeet.</em></p><p><em>you like meeting strangers?</em> Grantaire types back, and his phone cheerily buzzes in return:</p><p>
  <em>yeah!!! XD</em>
</p><p><em>careful around white vans</em>, Grantaire texts, and then Courfeyrac starts sending him an unending stream of memes and gifs.</p><p>Two days ago, he would’ve thought <em>what the hell</em>. His boyfriend’s best friend tells Grantaire he loves him? His numerous friends blow up his phone overnight? All of it is making him embarrassingly giddy, which is exactly why he attempts to wreck it.</p><p>“Hey. Do I tell these people we… broke up?” Grantaire can only pretend to fiddle with his phone to avoid eye contact for so long. Yet no reply from Enjolras is incoming. “Hello?”</p><p>“We didn’t,” Enjolras says thinly, continuing to be the most frustrating person alive both sexually and personality-wise.</p><p>“Okay, well, semantics,” Grantaire snaps, jamming his phone in his hoodie pocket and crossing his arms. “I’m not him, but like, functionally we kind of did. You don’t have to act like you still—“</p><p>“You don’t need to act either,” Enjolras interrupts, suddenly and painfully earnest. “I know you’re probably concerned since I’m serving as support in your recovery, but I know how you felt about me in 2013. You can be genuine and still have a place here, or with whoever you are most comfortable with. And- we didn't. Break up."</p><p>How Grantaire <em>felt</em>? Right now Grantaire simultaneously wants to smack him and straddle him and maybe also watch a sunset together. Thrown and pissed, he hisses, “I <em>genuinely</em> want to never—“ A knocks sounds on the door. Suddenly both their phones are buzzing. “…Courfeyrac?”</p><p><em>Jollly Bean</em>, corrects Grantaire’s phone, which is wiser than him. Ahh, Joly. Ray of sunshine.</p><p>“Picking up isn’t necessary,” Enjolras tells him, and stands to get the door. When he skirts the kitchen, he absently puts a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder in passing. The briefest touch.</p><p>It fucking <em>tingles</em>. The mind is smashed up and weak and fresh off an argument, but the flesh is extremely willing. Is it possible for his body to remember Enjolras better than him?</p><p>This is too much philosophy for a Monday morning. He joins Enjolras at the door.</p><p>“I know we’ll see you at the party tonight,” Joly says upon spotting him, bouncing—</p><p>“But we just couldn’t wait, okay?” Bossuet completes.</p><p>“Yo,” greets Musichetta, finishing flawlessly. Then she drags them across the perimeter to drop the trio onto Enjolras’ couch.</p><p>Grantaire has no idea what is expected here.</p><p>“This is why I bought extra pastries,” Enjolras confides to him under his breath. Like this is some kind of shameful secret instead of adorably considerate. “Go sit.” Hmm.</p><p>“I want that too, I do,” Grantaire mutters back, looking at the occupied cushions, “but uh… where.”</p><p>“They’ll show you,” Enjolras chuckles. Five seconds ago they were fighting, and now Enjolras laughs at something he didn’t even intend as a joke.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Grantaire thinks, stomach exploding into butterflies, <em>Apollo laughs</em>.</p><p>Luckily, he’s torn from thoughts by Bossuet demanding: “Grantaire!” He holds out his arms. There is a 2-inch sliver of couch. Now Grantaire suspects this is more than enough; he dives in. “I’m realizing we’re strangers, so you don’t have to cuddle us if you don’t want,” Bossuet says, a little tentative.</p><p>“Nah, this is a real hardship,” Grantaire says, settling in, “but I’m getting used to it quick.”</p><hr/><p>Between the house call and the grocery run, they’re starting to edge close to the impromptu party time.</p><p>“Not that I’m doubting you nerds are hardcore, but it’s Monday. Are people going to come to a Monday party?” Grantaire questions. They are walking somewhere, laden with supplies, from Enjolras’ apartment. He’d forgotten to ask exactly where they were headed.</p><p>“Most of us are still students,” Enjolras shrugs. The reusable bags on his arms crinkle.</p><p>“Yeah?” Says Grantaire, surprised. “You too?” Enjolras doesn’t seem like a student. Enjolras seems like he would turn any school establishment inside-out.</p><p>“Law student. I also have a political internship.” There it is. “It’s early January, so school’s on winter break. Feuilly’s restaurant jobs are closed on Monday. And,” they seem to have reached some destination, though it can’t have been more than five minutes. “We’re barely stemming the tide by having this tonight.”</p><p>“The tide of… merriment and booze?” Grantaire guesses, and Enjolras gives him a dubious look.</p><p>“They want to see you.”</p><p>That’s fine and normal, and no pressure whatsoever.</p><p>Enjolras unlocks the door of whatever apartment complex they’ve arrived at, pushing the door open before he pauses and closes it again.</p><p>“Um,” says Grantaire. “First of all: where are we. Second of all: does an educated boy like yourself not understand the concept of doors? We’re still outside.”</p><p>“I realized you should probably open it,” Enjolras explains, frowning at him. “So you’re used to it. This is your apartment, Grantaire.”</p><p>“Keys haven’t changed in the last few years,” Grantaire grumbles, but this is mostly to cover up the <em>what the fuck.</em></p><p>This complex is… nice. There’s no mouse trap in the corner of the entry hallway, no peeling carpet or mildewed ceiling. Most of all: Enjolras opened the door using his own keyring. Enjolras’ apartment has Grantaire finger-painted all over its interior; is Grantaire’s apartment just a shrine to the man? What’s <em>his</em> silverware look like? The door fumbles open. He’s about to find out.</p><p>Before he even really sees the apartment, he’s relaxing.</p><p>Grantaire may not know this place, but it smells like home. Coffee. <em>Oil paint</em>. The scent faint, barely lingering, but it’s there.</p><p>Bean bags and chairs in interesting shapes litter the first room; some sketches are hastily taped to the wall. Wooden floors for practicing dance steps; boxing gloves hung up on a peg with a gym duffel beneath. A yoga mat rolled up against the wall. He’s not into yoga, but he could be. On the opposite side of the room sits a desk; Grantaire’s never really had a desk.</p><p>All of it pales next to the two huge windows, bursting with sunlight, beams tumbling over the floor and lighting a tarp and canvas set right beside them.</p><p>Forget his gooey phone background. There’s a whole half-finished study in oil of Enjolras, of their friends, gathered in some bar. Pictures speak a thousand words. This one is singing them loud and clear.</p><p>“It’s my place?” He asks Enjolras, even if he knows. He has to be sure.</p><p>“Yours,” Enjolras confirms. “Come on.”</p><hr/><p>Preparing the house for company takes a long minute, and making spicy salsa takes about thirty.</p><p>“I homemake this shit?” Grantaire asks as he messes with the food processor.</p><p>“You cook a lot,” says Enjolras.</p><p>It makes sense. Grantaire had always sworn that if he ever was able, he’d cook properly instead of buying cup ramen just because that was all he could afford. Be a real home chef instead of a Steak n Shake cook like he was for two summers in high school. The dream must’ve come true. Brings a tear to his eye—or maybe that’s just because he touched them after cutting up the chili peppers.</p><p>“Anything?” Enjolras asks, as Grantaire pours ingredients together.</p><p>“What?” says Grantaire.</p><p>“Is this,” Enjolras’ brow furrows. “Are memories coming back?”</p><p>“No?” Enjolras is staring at him. “I know how to cook, man. Tomatoes are tomatoes. Tomato, to-mah-toes,” he finishes, smirking to himself. Enjolras doesn’t respond. “Show me the recipe card? Ok. Almost done now, I think.”</p><p>“Good. Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be by in ten.”</p><p>“What? It’s barely 6:30.” Any other party, people would start trickling in around eight, already tipsy.</p><p>“Combeferre gets particular about punctuality.”</p><p>These people have never heard of ‘fashionably late.’ Maybe Grantaire should’ve predicted this. Besides Eponine, everyone he’s met has been the kid who sits in the front row of the lecture hall, so—</p><p>“Yooooooo!” Comes from the front hall. Grantaire can see someone slinging themselves at Enjolras, who grunts but otherwise seems to catch them with no complaint. He’s dressed nicely, seems hyper-social, and even when standing next to the golden god himself is relatively handsome. Well, shit. Apparently they do have another non-nerd. “You won’t believe what happened on the bus! So I sit and across from me there’s this lady in a scarf, Emma or—Emily maybe—“</p><p>“Hello again,” says Combeferre, passing behind them to join Grantaire in the kitchen, careful but calm. “How’s your head? Enjolras says you haven’t recovered any memories yet.”</p><p>“Um,” says Grantaire. They probably have a shared whiteboard with his symptoms, like on House. “Nope. Who are you exactly?”</p><p>The corner of Combeferre’s mouth ticks up, but he says,“that’s not funny. I wasn’t well versed in amnesia, but I’ve been researching medical journals on the topic and I sent Enjolras some suggestions.”</p><p>“Cool?” Says Grantaire. “Is he gonna hypnotize me or something? I’d prefer not to relive my childhood.”</p><p>“—BAM!” Courfeyrac exclaims from behind with his arm arcing above his head, practically smacking Enjolras in the face. He doesn’t even flinch. “So now she tells me—“</p><p>“No hypnotism,” says Combeferre. “The suggestions are moreso along the lines of photographs, smells, music. Familiar environments.”</p><p>“Well, I’ve spent pretty much the whole day at Enjolras’ house, so…” Familiar environment not so much, probably, these days. Maybe the duvet and curtains are old.</p><p>“That’s probably the best place,” says Combeferre, nodding, like that makes any sense. “You should try to spend time with all of us, though. Here, Courfeyrac’s distracted, let me introduce you.”</p><p>“—and I didn’t have to pay for an Airbnb out of the funds!” Courfeyrac finishes.</p><p>“Excellent,” says Enjolras earnestly. Oh, god. He’s smiling with perfect teeth and everything. He’s got a curl knocked into his eyes from being jumped. Grantaire is hyperventilating. Interacting with Courfeyrac almost makes him look like a regular, if extremely attractive, guy. “That sounds fun. How was the rally?”</p><p>“Perfect,” emphasizes Courfeyrac, turning, “and I will tell you why, but first. Hi! I’m Courfeyrac. Are you a hugger?”</p><p>“I don’t know?” Grantaire says, because he never would’ve said that about himself before, but the Bossuet-Joly-Musichetta hug had been excellent. “We could try?”</p><p>“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, practically shoving Enjolras off and exchanging him with Grantaire, squeezing warmly. “Sorry I was absent, but I was at the sister rally in the next state. I’m sure this is a super weird experience for you.”</p><p>“Super weird,” Grantaire admits. And then—what does he say? He doesn’t know these people, and there’s no alcohol to ease the icebreaking. He’s barely treading water with Enjolras, who’s supposed to have been his boyfriend. If these are his best friends, they’ve probably got reservations about him dating a fuck-up like Grantaire. Except— Courfeyrac takes him by the shoulders.</p><p>“R! Can I call you R? Great. I spent <em>the whole bus ride</em> thinking of all the Youtube videos and everything to show you from the last few years. Do you understand what an opportunity this is? To the television, comrades!”</p><hr/><p>Grantaire’s been to a thousand parties, and this one is nothing like them.</p><p>Grantaire’s slow dancing to something called <em>Uptown Funk</em>, with Courfeyrac leading, when the door buzzer goes off.</p><p>“Dip me while the adults are distracted,” he whispers, because Combeferre and Enjolras have been hovering like Grantaire’s going to spontaneously start headbanging into oblivion every memory he’s ever made. It’s driving him nuts.</p><p>Courfeyrac winks. “No way. If you’re good I will grant you a brownie.”</p><p>“A special brownie?” He waggles his eyebrows. Now they’re talking.</p><p>“Nope,” greets Eponine, flinging her coat onto Grantaire’s floor and her shoes at Combeferre’s shins. “No psychedelics for you. Move, bitch. Best friend privileges.”</p><p>He can already tell Eponine is not a hugger. They’re—they’re <em>lounging</em> friends, and in <em>the good old days</em> they’d lay around, passing a blunt and shooting the shit. Apparently they still do, on special occasions or when Joly wants company while he takes his medical strain. That she explains this in Enjolras’ earshot and he doesn’t start gasping about his disappointment says… something.</p><p>Courfeyrac is fantastic, and Combeferre is an educational ASMR video, and Enjolras is terrifying, but Eponine is <em>his</em>. She takes him aside to chat him up while Courfeyrac launches into a dramatic update of the sister rally, and that lasts up until the door buzzer goes again. How many people can they possibly squish in here?</p><p>The answer is: many more than you’d think. Especially when half of them are in each others’ laps.</p><p>Bahorel practically has to crouch to enter the apartment, and makes a Chewbacca call upon sight. “Bro! You don’t remember this, but I beat you in boxing all the time!” <em>He doesn’t</em>, Eponine mouths. Feuilly, who looks like he never sleeps and is still wearing some corporate hell blue vest, greets him fondly. Marius waves and reintroduces himself twice, and Cosette sneaks him three cookies before she goes to put them on the communal table.</p><p>The fuck. Actually seeing all of future Grantaire’s friends rather than hearing about them is a trip. But regardless of whatever Future Grantaire did, he’s not the one here now.</p><p>They play Never Have I Ever. They hoot and hiss over Grantaire’s ‘battle wound.’ Jehan does a dramatic retelling of how Grantaire got injured, which mostly involves some asshole counterprotestor with a crowbar who was going after Jehan and—and Enjolras. He was going after Enjolras.</p><p>Well, shit. No wonder the guy can’t decide where they stand. <em>I am your boyfriend?</em> in the hospital with all their friends, <em>I'm not your boyfriend </em>that night, <em>we didn't break up</em> in the morning.</p><p>It’s practically survivor’s guilt. Grantaire wants to throw up, or drink until he does. It still doesn't even <em>make sense</em>, but at least now it makes sense that it doesn't make sense. ...shit.</p><p>With about twenty people in the room, refusing to look at Enjolras doesn’t feel nearly as awkward. Grantaire can't do this. He has to do this.</p><p>Luckily for Grantaire, Courfeyrac is magic.</p><p>“Did all of you bring your memory show-and-tell?” Courfeyrac rallies to general good cheer. “Put the king—“</p><p>“Ahem,” coughs Enjolras.</p><p>“Put the democratically-elected representative into his throne!” Now Grantaire’s a democratically-elected representative. His bean bag throne is mighty. Wonders never cease.</p><p>Everyone unearths some small item to present to him one-by-one—wood carvings and miniature canvases, photos and, in Jehan’s case, an outfit that everyone proclaims is their <em>Get-You-Some</em> first date outfit, which Grantaire picked out for them because Jehan is a fashion disaster. There’s a story for each. Grantaire listens, and tries to picture himself in them. Sometimes it even works.</p><p>Sometimes it doesn’t. Future Grantaire actually has his shit together.</p><p>“Hot cocoa?” Cosette suggests, when they’ve finished going round the circle.</p><p>“Give us the goods,” extorts Eponine to Enjolras. “Cosette can sniff out gourmet hot cocoa from 20 miles away.”</p><p>By the end of the night, nobody’s drunk a single drop of alcohol. Still, Grantaire feels wine-tipsy. Sleepy and content and full. He’s having an <em>I-love-everybody-in-this-bar</em> moment, magnified by a million. How do they do that? How did he earn this? He doesn’t know any of them, and it’s been the best night of his life.</p><p>“Come on,” Enjolras says, appearing out of nowhere, hoisting him up. The touch is hotter than the cocoa, glowing on Grantaire’s waist. “Go to bed. They’ll trickle out eventually. This always happens to the host.” There’s a chorus of farewells. Grantaire is deposited into glorious fuzzy warmth. “I’ll be outside,” Enjolras promises. Grantaire’s too worn out to even consider asking: <em>stay</em>.</p><p>Too exhausted by far, to ask Enjolras whether he's decided what they are.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>THANKS DEARS<br/>the response i've gotten to the first chapter destroyed me and I'm in love w/ all of u<br/>thank you for reading, thanks for any comments. y'all are the best</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which there are hugs, Grantaire gets teased, and he finally goes to one of these 'meetings' everyone keeps raving about.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>alright my babes, here we go<br/>this is what was meant to happen in chapter 2<br/>tw: mention of a panic attack approaching, it doesn't happen tho<br/>american education system and donations briefly discussed. R's views do not necessarily represent my own (complex) ones on the topic</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the morning, they migrate back over to Enjolras’ <em>what-is-happening-here</em> apartment, where Grantaire cooks eggs with way too much pepper and grudgingly promises Enjolras he’ll spend part of the day flipping through photos on his camera roll, Instagram, and Facebook while Enjolras works from home.</p>
<p>So Grantaire’s fallen into the internet hole of the entire year of 2016. This is when Enjolras paces in, hair still distractingly wet from his shower, and declares unprompted:</p>
<p>“There’s a meeting tonight.” Grantaire opens his mouth to say <em>damn, Daniel</em> and also to ask <em>what meeting</em> but Enjolras adds, “for the ABC.”</p>
<p>“Is it mandatory?” Grantaire asks.</p>
<p>“You usually go.”</p>
<p>“So there’s snacks or video games or something?”</p>
<p>“It’s at a bar,” Enjolras says, looking like he’s eaten a lemon.</p>
<p>“Sold,” says Grantaire, even though he can’t drink. Head trauma is a downer.</p>
<p>“Be ready by six,” Enjolras tells him. “Do you have anything you’d like to do today?”</p>
<p><em>Regain all my memories</em>, Grantaire thinks. <em>Figure out whether it’s better to know what the hell is going on or avoid the potentially damning reason we were breaking up before somebody took a swing at you and I threw myself in the middle. Dig a hole in the ground for burying all of my growing feelings for you.</em></p>
<p>“Achieve world peace,” he says instead. “You know, so we can cancel the meeting.” Enjolras scowls at him, and that hurts a little, but not nearly as much as the creeping tendrils of a headache. Smart doctor people did tell him this might happen. Grantaire naps fitfully for a few hours, wakes up when Joly-Bossuet-Musichetta drop by with takeout for a late lunch.</p>
<p>“Does this hurt?” Joly asks, with gentle (gloved!) fingers.</p>
<p>Grantaire can’t even feel where he’s touching next to the general ache across his skull, so the answer is, “no.”</p>
<p>“I prescribe rest and a cookie,” Joly says. “Trust me, I’m a second year med student.” Nurse Bossuet brings forth the Oreos with a <em>cookies, stat!</em></p>
<p>“I’m gonna overdose,” Grantaire warns, and Joly giggles and snaps off the gloves. But he only eats a few, before JBM leaves him half-asleep on the couch.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” someone is saying later, a touch ghosting on his shoulder. “Do you want dinner before we go?”</p>
<p>“<em>Mmmgh</em>,” he tells them, to which they softly say, <em>one hour, </em>but time is an illusion, so Grantaire goes right back to sleep.</p>
<p>It's been seconds or years, when: “Grantaire,” the voice says again, gentler.“Time to wake up.”</p><hr/>
<p>To be honest, despite everyone’s starry-eyed raving, Grantaire doesn’t see the point of justice club. They’re a bunch of students and the layabouts those students befriended. What are they going to accomplish? It’s the adult version of playing house: <em>you be the mom, I’ll be the dad, and federal voting rights will be our baby.</em> Sure, Enjolras could probably topple a government just by sheer force of will, but counterpoint: Marius.</p>
<p>He wakes up still sleepy, and cold. So he grouchily yanks on a beanie and some sweatpants, stretching like a cat over the couch arm to watch Enjolras’ long fingers <em>type type type</em> away. Still, he can’t help but get a little excited, once Enjolras checks his dorky watch and carefully gathers up his sleek briefcase and says, “it’s time.”</p>
<p>As they walk, Grantaire says, “get me hyped. What do we do at these meetings? Do we air grievances? Do Bahorel and I mud wrestle?”</p>
<p>Contorting his face in what might be a smile, Enjolras says, “mudslinging has come up before.”</p>
<p>That has to be a joke, right? Grantaire laughs. It takes too long, sounds forced. They walk for a minute, saying nothing.</p>
<p>“You still haven’t told me,” he pokes.</p>
<p>“Brace yourself,” Enjolras says, “for a riveting discussion of the American public education system.”</p>
<p>Grantaire gives up. He’ll never have a radar for whether Enjolras is joking or not; he could <em>mean that.</em></p>
<p>“I was tempted to switch our topic to the healthcare system,” Enjolras mutters, blissfully ignorant of Grantaire’s struggles. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac talked me out of it. Said we weren’t positioned to do that, it was a stressful week, and we should stay the course.”</p>
<p>“Those cowards,” Grantaire says loyally. Enjolras sighs.</p>
<p>They walk in silence a moment more, and then Enjolras says, “I’m hopeful that the Musain will trigger something.”</p>
<p><em>Like a nap?</em> Grantaire thinks, because it’s a meeting, but then he realizes. “Nothing’s triggered my memories so far.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Enjolras acknowledges. “I just hope it will.”</p>
<p>Grantaire shrugs. He’s a skeptic at heart. “Sure. Hey, if he was here right now, what would you do?”</p>
<p>Enjolras swallows. Buries his chin a little deeper in his scarf. The wind’s biting his cheeks red, to match his coat. “Go to the ABC meeting.”</p>
<p>“Romantic.”</p>
<p>“It’s the truth.”</p>
<p>“So,” Grantaire kicks a stone, “I really like this shit now?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you eat it right up,” Enjolras mutters. “So for your own palate maybe reconsider calling it ‘shit.’”</p>
<p>A crack in the pavement practically bites his shoe, and he sprawls forward. Holy <em>fuck</em>. Enjolras can be <em>spicy</em>. Grantaire has no idea why it’s never emerged before this moment, but at least it’s been experienced before he smashes his face open on the pavement—</p>
<p>Enjolras catches him. He’s dropped his stupidly nice briefcase on the frozen ground, and he’s caught Grantaire by the arm, steadying.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” he says on a gusty inhale. “<em>Careful</em>.” His fingers skim up Grantaire’s arm, touch at his curls for just a moment. A reassurance. Grantaire’s not sure which one of them it’s for. Then he steps away.</p>
<p>It comes to Grantaire, then, though he can’t quite say why, that Enjolras thinks he is going to hate this meeting. That it’s a threat, somehow. Like it’s going to ruin something between them. Yet he can’t help but—but bring Grantaire there.</p>
<p>“Look,” says Grantaire. “We have no guarantee the Musain is going to help regain my memory. But—I’m going to <em>try</em>.”</p>
<p>Enjolras ducks to gather his briefcase, brush it off, and doesn’t look at Grantaire. “That’s all we can do,” he says, and they go on.</p><hr/>
<p>The Musain is bright, and warm, even in the early and chilly nightfall of winter. When they tumble in from the outdoors, Musichetta crooks a come-hither finger at him from the bar, and slides over a mug of warm cider. In typical style, Enjolras strides off.</p>
<p>“Booze-free. It’s not on the menu,” she says with a wink. “Don’t tell my boss.”</p>
<p>“Secret menus are why In-N-Out has been successful,” he tells her. “Live your dream. So is there a seating chart, or…?”</p>
<p>“Go up the stairs with the string lights. Your boyfriend’s trio runs the meeting from the front,” she says. “They’ll start it up in a minute.”</p>
<p>“Chill,” says Grantaire, and lingers. The tables and the stools are older, but well-polished, gleaming wood. It rings familiar, but only in the way you might feel about discovering any bar or café you immediately love and adopt as your own.</p>
<p>At some point, he’ll have to go upstairs. He holds himself as long as he can, waving from the bar as more and more of the members pile in the door, shedding layers and laughing. Finally there’s quiet, and then Courfeyrac alone is talking. The meeting’s begun. Now or never. He sneaks up the stairs.</p>
<p>It’s dimmer, up there, with soft lights collected near the front of the room. The group’s sprawled across, but nobody pays him any mind as he slips in and joins Eponine in the back.</p>
<p>“Hey,” she greets, tucking hair behind her ear and grinning at him. “Just in time.”</p>
<p>“For what?” Grantaire asks, because the meeting’s already started, but she grabs his hand with a <em>shhh</em> and pulls him onto a stool.</p>
<p>Grantaire gets his answer.</p>
<p>From the front, Enjolras rises, nodding greetings, thanking Courfeyrac for the friendly introduction. And then… he speaks.</p>
<p>“We’ve begun collections and are raising awareness for the poor funding going into the public schools of underserved regions,” Enjolras begins. Each word grows in intensity. “Maintenance of the socioeconomic gap begins in youth. To equalize the people of our nation we must begin with the education system…”</p>
<p>Listening to Enjolras is like covering yourself in metal and climbing a tree in a thunderstorm. The hair on your arms rising, full body chills, high wind, excitement and destruction. Waiting for the inevitable.</p>
<p>If Grantaire had walked into this without knowing him as his awkward maybe-boyfriend, without having trailed and bantered with him, he’d have been electrocuted. He’d have burned. Screamed. Sobbed. Maybe jumped up and punched Enjolras square in the jaw. Or shoved him into a backroom, and climbed atop him, and spasmed and ground hard until every shockwave passed between them.</p>
<p>As it is, he barely holds on. Eponine’s hand serves as his only anchor. A lifeline.</p>
<p>“The fuck,” he whimpers. “The <em>fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” she hums. “I kind of thought this might happen. Sit back. These meetings last all night.”</p><hr/>
<p>Other people do talk at these meetings, but for Grantaire, it’s a dazed reprieve. He wants a drink. He wants to cry long and hard. He wants Enjolras’ mouth. Courfeyrac is saying something, and then Marius. All his friends chiming in turn. Everybody uses words. Grantaire’s not sure he’s actually heard anyone use them right, before tonight.</p>
<p>Anything anyone’s ever said has just been a digression. This is the plot.</p>
<p>So he listens. Kind of. Doodles, because his hands are shaking. It is during this listening that he realizes: people are looking at him.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, from the front of the room. Practically haloed. “Do you have an opinion?”</p>
<p>The <em>fuck</em>.</p>
<p>“You want to hear my opinion?” On <em>the public school system of underserved regions</em>?</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Eponine says. “This is usually the part where you come in and run their arguments over a cheese grater.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know shit about school,” scoffs Grantaire. “I repeated a year.”</p>
<p>Eponine raises a pierced eyebrow. “Yeah, that one year totally makes your thoughts obsolete.”</p>
<p>And maybe if it was just Eponine ribbing him, Grantaire wouldn’t say anything. Except—except everyone’s looking at him, a little bit, with not derision but anticipation. Enjolras <em>asked</em>.</p>
<p>“Okay,” says Grantaire, picking at his napkin, ripping up whatever trash he’d been doodling. “Okay, well, if you want my opinion, the focus on online textbook or lesson plans and software donation is a crock of shit.” Nobody gasps. Nobody says, <em>get out</em>. Nobody says anything at all, so Grantaire continues, “most of these kids probably don’t even have a computer.”</p>
<p>“We have a laptop donation plan as well,” Combeferre informs, reasonably.</p>
<p>“Oh, good, and the ten nice ones you afford for a school of a thousand will last about 3 months,” Grantaire snorts. At Combeferre’s head tilt, he explains, “they’re going to destroy them.”</p>
<p>“Don’t assume that just because of their socioeconomic status—“</p>
<p>“It’s because they’re <em>teenagers</em>,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “They’re going to smash them up, riddle them with porn or game site viruses, and if they’re in a particularly shitty situation their parents will steal them and hawk them. The poor schools don’t even have IT support to fix it. And then whatever rich bastard bought the laptops will probably be like: ‘look, see, these peasant kids don’t want to learn, let’s not give them any more funding.’” Enjolras is staring at him. Grantaire can’t speak like Enjolras can. Grantaire should stop. He’s an addict—he never knows when to stop. Instead, he says, “My motto’s not ‘don’t give laptops to kids in need!’ Just. I just feel like there’s another way besides online stuff. One that doesn’t assume every kid has access to a computer and the internet without any alternatives.”</p>
<p>“…which are?” Enjolras asks. It sounds like he actually wants to hear.</p>
<p>“Fuck if I know,” Grantaire says. The napkin is gone. The napkin is dust. “You people are the ones with castles on a cloud, you figure it out.”</p>
<p>Now he waits. For Enjolras to sneer condescendingly at him. For these braveheart people to return to their positivity and motivation and toss his jaded darkness out into the frozen grass.</p>
<p>“Brainstorming session, then,” says Enjolras instead, and <em>what</em>. “Before we get distracted with that, any other thoughts you’d like to share?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” Courfeyrac cheers. “Yes, Grantaire, just fucking <em>drag</em> us.”</p>
<p>“Nah,” Grantaire croaks, even though there’s a billion buzzing around behind his lips. Sex ed sucks. Transportation. Private schools. …tutoring programs to connect kids with student volunteers from their university. “Nah, I’m done.”</p>
<p>And he is.</p>
<p>The ABC bursts into action—creativity, livelihood. Discussions of making sure kids have a proper environment, a safe and loving and learning one, to bloom in. That it can make all the difference.</p>
<p>They’re fantastic. <em>Starry Night.</em> <em>The Birth of Venus. The Water Lily Pond. </em>Grantaire is—Grantaire is a smear.</p>
<p>“Eponine,” he grits. “I can’t do this sober.”</p>
<p>“You have,” she tells him.</p>
<p>“I need to <em>leave</em>.” Enjolras is here. Right here, and Grantaire’s not allowed to touch.</p>
<p>“I’d get you out of here,” she says, the closest to sympathetic he’s seen her, “but Azelma and Gavroche are staying with me this week and there’s nowhere for you. Jehan would probably let you crash.”</p>
<p>“Please,” he tells her, and she kicks him lightly, just hard enough to keep him grounded. She beckons to Jehan meaningfully, who unfurls from where they’re curled up next to Bahorel and Feuilly, and they slide over beneath the din.</p>
<p>“It’s very loud,” says Jehan. “Would you walk me home?”</p><hr/>
<p>Although he’s dropped himself onto Jehan with zero warning, they flutter him into their apartment with a small smile.</p>
<p>“Would you like tea?” Grantaire nods. “Please wait here.” <em>Here</em> meaning in front of their overflowing bookcase. “You’re welcome to any of them. Some are yours. We,” they blush, like this is somehow incredibly intimate, “have a book exchange.”</p>
<p>Unlike Enjolras’ bookshelf, which carries some intimidating titles, Jehan’s shelf is speckled with thinner poetry collections, watercolor and pastel spines. Grantaire settles on something modern and is halfway through the second page when Jehan reemerges from the kitchen.</p>
<p>“You can go on,” they say, like they know Grantaire was about to stop. They’re settling the tea set onto a carved oak table, settling into one armchair. The delicate clinking of porcelain is soothing; the crisp swirl of a pour makes him look up at the end of the poem.</p>
<p>“Um,” says Grantaire, sitting in the opposite armchair. “Thanks for having me over last minute.”</p>
<p>“It’s not a problem.” They reach over the table, set a hand on Grantaire’s knee. “I texted Enjolras and he’ll drop by after the meeting with your toiletries and medication.” Well, shit. “You don’t have to talk to him. I told him you were sleepy and I missed you, so we left early.”</p>
<p>Grantaire blinks. “You lied to Enjolras?”</p>
<p>Jehan pats his knee. “It’s not a lie in spirit. And I do miss you.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Grantaire. He sips his herbal tea. His vision’s swimming. Sitting upright is hard. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“You know,” says Jehan. “I really don’t think any of it was a lie at all.”</p>
<p>Unlike Enjolras, Jehan has no reservations about sleeping next to a ‘stranger’ either. So Grantaire squirms under the covers, and Jehan turns out the light with a promise to return.</p>
<p>“I’ll wake you to brush your teeth later,” Jehan says. “What’re you up to tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Avoiding Enjolras. “Nothing much.”</p>
<p>“May I propose hanging out with me?”</p>
<p>The last thing Grantaire remembers is yawning a <em>yes</em><em>.</em></p><hr/>
<p>Hanging out with Jehan is dreamy and witty and involves far too much sugar. Every story Jehan tells is curated carefully to maximize imagery, so he <em>may</em> shoot soy milk out his nose while laughing.</p>
<p>He doesn’t think about Enjolras speaking, his gut twisting and body tingling, for probably whole seconds at a time. Jehan’s incredible.</p>
<p>“Kids’re in school,” Eponine says, appearing on their doorstep halfway through the morning. Without any kind of verbal agreement, they all put on their winter clothes and take off to wander a park and then settle into a café.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I still don’t remember anything from beyond Saturday,” Grantaire admits to his sandwich. “No anime flashbacks. No epiphanies. I think Enjolras is freaking out?”</p>
<p>“I dunno why, you’ve always had the memory span of a goldfish,” Eponine drawls.</p>
<p>“Are <em>you</em> freaking out?” Jehan asks sagely.</p>
<p>“Maybe? Have Enjolras and I always been this weird?” Grantaire blurts. “I get that I am wildly different, but you and Jehan aren’t like. Staring at me sideways every time I say something or giving me speeches about your expectations for my behavior.” Jehan and Eponine shoot each other a look. “If you say Enjolras and I have a complicated relationship, I will <em>scream</em>.”</p>
<p>“Complicated isn’t the word I’d choose,” says Jehan, who appears to choose words for a living as a writer.</p>
<p>Until Enjolras gives him some kind of indication what’s going on, Grantaire doesn’t think he should mention the breakup. But he can’t help—</p>
<p>“How often do we fight?”</p>
<p>Jehan sips their drink; Eponine continues chewing her straw when they both chorus: “all the time.”</p>
<p>Well, shit. No wonder <em>you're not my boyfriend</em> was imminent.</p>
<p>“It’s foreplay,” Eponine adds. "Or something equally gross. Like you guys valuing each others hot takes."</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jehan nods. “As long as you’re kind to each other overall.”</p>
<p>“But if you <em>want</em> to fight with him and come hang out with us instead,” Eponine says, “you’re welcome. I need young adults. I’m basically a parent to my siblings, Grantaire, and I didn’t even get laid first like every other parent.”</p>
<p>“Yes you did,” Jehan gently reminds her.</p>
<p>“Okay, but they’re not <em>mine</em>,” Eponine argues, before launching into an explanation of her fucked-up family structure. It's nice to hear someone’s problems for a while, to empathize and ask <em>what can I do?</em> or <em>want me to roundhouse-kick someone for you?</em>, to not be the teary-eyed focus. He wants the best for Eponine, of course it's just-- nice. Very nice to sit here in the warm cafe shoulder-to-shoulder, no matter what she's talking about. To give him normalcy.</p>
<p>“Fucking good to see you,” Eponine tells him with a smack to his shoulder as they shiver outside the café, still not quite ready to walk apart. “Come by whenever. We missed you.”</p>
<p>Grantaire blinks. “You missed me?” Where’d he go before amnesia?</p>
<p>“Ugh, for the last few months you and loverboy were having your much delayed honeymoon phase.” Grantaire squints at her as she rubs her hands, blows on them. Enjolras had broken up with him. Maybe Eponine misread crashing and burning as something else. “Sitting all cuddled up. Mooning at each other. Oh, <em>Enjolras</em>, I know we basically live together but if I don’t spend this whole ABC barcrawl serving as your human cloak I will just shrivel into nothingness. Air tastes better when it’s already been breathed by <em>yoooou</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” he blusters, crunching up, and laughing despite himself. “<em>Eponine</em>.” He can’t help but look around, like Enjolras is going to leap out of the bushes. Catching him, Jehan gives a sly little smile. Jehan is <em>dangerous</em>.</p>
<p>“Oh Enjolras,” they add silkily, “this essay you want me to review… it’s just… so long and the words are so <em>big</em>—“</p>
<p>“Stop,” he begs, even as his brain flares, <em>a law student wanted his lazy artist boyfriend’s opinion on an essay?</em></p>
<p>“You don’t even remember this,” Eponine reminds him. “How can you be so embarrassed? You can be embarrassed about the now. You’ve been weirdly private about you and Enjolras in the past but this is imperative, R.” Oh god. “Are you guys banging yet, or are the moral ambiguities too great for Mr. Perfect?”</p>
<p><em>“Ep,</em>” Grantaire chokes. And maybe—maybe before he saw Enjolras in full glory, leading the people at the Musain, he would’ve joked back. Now it feels like jabbing a wound, like a sore muscle screaming with every movement. “Come on, I’m playing the head trauma card. I’m ready to go home.”</p><hr/>
<p>When Jehan drops him off with a kiss on the cheek and soft <em>hello goodbye</em> to Enjolras, there’s a mess of papers on the desk, and Enjolras is lighting a scented candle.</p>
<p>“Ooh,” says Grantaire. Upon seeing Enjolras he feels emboldened by company and, weirdly, the teasing. Ready to poke at the wound. “Setting the mood? Perfect timing: I’m here.” Enjolras doesn’t even startle.</p>
<p>“It’s to help me relax and work,” he disagrees tightly. “While I’m not in school over winter break, I need to get as much done as I possibly can. There are others relying on me as well as you. At the least I need to hand off my work. You disappeared during the meeting last night, but Jehan texted and I thought you’d be taken care of the whole day.”</p>
<p>Taken care of. “Oh,” says Grantaire uncomfortably. In all of this, he hasn’t really considered—he’s a <em>hassle</em>. He requires <em>babysitting</em>. There’s a reason he hasn’t been alone for a single second since exiting the hospital. The fact that they think Grantaire at twenty-one can’t be unsupervised is…</p>
<p>To be honest, it sets him on edge. If there’s one thing Grantaire could do at twenty-one, it was keep himself alive in <em>way </em>shittier circumstances than a free afternoon at his maybe-ex-boyfriend’s nice apartment.</p>
<p>“So am I allowed to read,” he drawls, with bitterness he doesn’t quite get under wraps, “or is the risk of papercut too great.”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ head snaps up from his laptop. He’s reorganized all his precious papers into a thick stack. “I don’t care what you do, Grantaire.”</p>
<p>Well. Isn’t that apt.</p>
<p>This is the same guy he was <em>mooning</em> with? What the fuck. Grantaire’s different, but Enjolras—Enjolras doesn’t do <em>mooning</em>, not years ago or a week ago or now. Enjolras burns like the sun.</p>
<p>Grantaire stalks to the bookshelf and picks up something, anything. No comment from Enjolras. It’s only once he’s begrudgingly settled into the couch cushions that he reads the title: Democracy in America, by Alexis de Tocqueville. Thrilling.</p>
<p>He sees the inscription inside the cover—his own handwriting—and doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he flips to the introduction.</p>
<p>He’s surprised, when he yawns and stretches after chapter five, to realize his body’s not banging those war drums, screaming with that infectious itch that can’t be ignored. He inspects, quietly, and realizes he could maybe go for a light jog and a drink of water. Has it been this way for <em>days?</em></p>
<p>Maybe?</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to smoke, or drink, or writhe beneath a horny stranger at a party. No. Instead, he wants to sit here, reading <em>Democracy in America</em>, and maybe sneak over and tuck Enjolras’ head beneath his chin to see what he’s working on.</p>
<p>How many times had Grantaire woken up and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in to feel like this? How many times had he broken down and had that ill-advised Everclear shot, that cigarette, that handjob in a filthy bathroom stall? He still could. He still kind of longs for the familiarity, of those questionable decisions, and—addicts can be addicts for life.</p>
<p>But he doesn’t <em>need</em> that hit as desperately. And that makes all the difference. His bad mood evaporates.</p>
<p>So Grantaire gets a glass of water, and sits—with his legs thrown up on the couch’s top edge, practically upside-down, because some things don’t change— and reads.</p><hr/>
<p>Halfway through chapter seven, his eyes are hurting a little. He rubs them, flops back, and sighs. When he lazily surveys the room, Enjolras has stopped typing, is staring at him.</p>
<p>“Um.” Grantaire waves. “Hey.”</p>
<p>“Hey,” says Enjolras, and then he stands and leaves. Wow. Record time.</p>
<p>It’s a record time for him to come back, too, speeding in on his bright red socks. He’s holding a small case. He opens it with a <em>snick</em>, unfolds forest-green rimmed glasses that are weirdly fashionable. Grantaire is still sort of upside-down, and Enjolras pauses for a moment, before twisting them and sliding them over the bridge of Grantaire’s nose. Taps them into perfect place.</p>
<p>“Huh,” says Grantaire. There’s instant relief; had he been <em>squinting</em>? “I wear glasses now.”</p>
<p>With his brand new glasses, he can see Enjolras shift from foot to foot. “When you read. I apologize.” He closes the case. “I forget that you forget.”</p>
<p>“It’s cool,” says Grantaire. “How’s work?”</p>
<p>“Emails,” says Enjolras, honestly. “Tell me when you’re hungry and I’ll stop for the day.”</p>
<p>Grantaire wants this afternoon to last forever. “Will do, chief.”  He won’t. Future Grantaire was a compulsive liar; Grantaire’s beginning to sympathize with him. “I saw you have an espresso machine.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome to it,” says Enjolras absently, sitting back down at his desk, elbows on his knees, long legs sprawled with hands clasped between them. He’s effortlessly attractive, and it’s killing Grantaire.</p>
<p>“I’m a barista,” Grantaire explains, and Enjolras blinks, head tilting. “I mean. I was a barista. Am I still a barista?”</p>
<p>“No,” says Enjolras. “You do graphic design.”</p>
<p>“Do I have an honest-to-goodness art job? I thought those were a myth.”</p>
<p>Sitting up, lips pressing together in what Grantaire is beginning to recognize as nervousness, he says, “of course you do. You went part-time to focus on painting, though, when that started selling enough.”</p>
<p>Grantaire thought a lack of homework was a relief. Suddenly, the idea that he has <em>creative works</em> waiting for completion scares him so much more. Oh <em>shit</em>. He has paintings, and a job, and probably none of Future Grantaire’s skills. The piece above the couch is doing something with space and implied lines that Grantaire has no idea if he can replicate. What’s he going to <em>do</em>?</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras breaks through the turmoil, solid and sure, “breathe.” Just like that, his chest loosens a bit. Enjolras has a plan. If Enjolras isn’t concerned, neither is Grantaire, at least when it comes to this. “Combeferre and I worked it out. We informed your work and your clients you were in an accident and are taking some recovery time.”</p>
<p>Of course they did. He and Combeferre probably have a binder titled Grantaire’s Recovery and Contingency Plans, with a table of contents and numbered sections. Little do they know: it’s not going to help the biggest problem. Grantaire himself is always the biggest problem.</p>
<p>“Ok,” says Grantaire, sucking in air. “That’s great. I’m really grateful. Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” says Enjolras. He doesn’t turn back to the laptop. “Grantaire, why don’t you have a drink of water?”</p>
<p>Grantaire jerks to look at him. His glasses practically fly off his face—oh. He’s going to have to get used to that.</p>
<p>“You can tell, can’t you,” Grantaire realizes dimly, and Enjolras runs his hand through his hair once in a gesture that must mean <em>yes</em>.</p>
<p>“You’ve had a panic attack in front of me before. It was only the once.”</p>
<p>Oh, that’s totally chill. Probably happened the first time Enjolras took his shirt off. Not embarrassing at all. He counts, breathes, recites in his head. <em>You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay</em>. By the time he’s done with that, Enjolras is standing over him, glass extended. Grantaire gulps it down.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, I don’t think I’m going to go full blown,” Grantaire winces, after a few moments. “It’s gonna be fine. Sorry about that.”</p>
<p>“I think the situation merits some anxiety, Grantaire. You don’t need to apologize to me.” He shifts, suddenly awkward. “Last time you said not to touch you. That’s why I’m not doing it now.”</p>
<p>All Grantaire wants is to be touched, especially by Enjolras. Future Grantaire is insanely strong.</p>
<p>“Um, okay. Well.” He evaluates, waits. It’s painfully awkward. “I think it’s passed. How about that coffee?”</p>
<p>Enjolras is still in front of him; he doesn’t move out of the way. “Caffeine isn’t advisable at the moment.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Grantaire rubs his palm along his thigh. “I meant—for you. I shouldn’t really have it with the—head wound. That’s what the nurse said.”</p>
<p>Grimacing, Enjolras recalls, “and I offered you some earlier.”</p>
<p>“Hey, the packet of homecare info was like thirty pages long,” also, he’d seen Enjolras actually <em>reading it</em>, which Grantaire himself had given up on immediately, “and I can tell you’re the kind of person who views coffee as interchangeable with water. No worries. Be right back.”</p>
<p>This? This, Grantaire can do. He doesn’t need five years of memory, to find the milk and sugar and figure out how the little espresso machine works. Grantaire appreciates that. Appreciates keeping his hands busy in the wake of an… event.</p>
<p>Enjolras is taking care of him. He can return the favor.</p>
<p>“Cheers,” he announces, emerging from the kitchen with his proof that he is an adult capable of something. Enjolras’ smile is tired, but honest.</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>“No prob,” Grantaire says, and flops back down on the couch, “anytime.” Quietly, Enjolras blows the steam on his coffee, and Grantaire doesn’t watch. He’s not that much of a masochist.</p>
<p>“Summarizing a life is a lot, and I’m trying not to overwhelm you. Do you have more questions for me?”</p>
<p>No. Grantaire thinks he’s done, for a while. Cracking open <em>Democracy in America</em>, he shakes his head.</p>
<p>After a long few moments, the clacking of computer keys resumes.</p><hr/>
<p>When the candle’s almost out, Enjolras stands and stretches with a sigh.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” he says reproachfully after looking at his watch, “I know you’re hungry.”</p>
<p>Yeah, he is. But it hadn’t been worth it, to make everything stop.</p>
<p>“Take-out?” He suggests.</p>
<p>“Take-out,” Enjolras agrees. He calls up some restaurant Grantaire’s never actually heard of—he taps <em>founded 2016</em> on the menu when he catches Grantaire looking, because of course he’s that detail-oriented—and then drunken noodles are delivered.</p>
<p>Grantaire loves it. He doesn’t say so, but maybe he doesn’t have to.</p>
<p>“It’s your favorite,” Enjolras explains. <em>You’re my favorite</em>, Grantaire thinks, but he stuffs noodles in his face so the thought can’t escape his mouth. Days. He’s known Enjolras for days.</p>
<p><em>Future Grantaire</em>, he thinks, <em>I don’t know how, but you really fucked up</em>.</p><hr/>
<p>The next day is dominated by one thing alone: Bahorel.</p>
<p>“My skateboard is my chariot for us today, my man,” says Bahorel, and Enjolras from his desk says <em>no</em> quietly but decisively. “Ok, it’s a Subaru, but. I have plans. Cheese fries. Movies. Watching some boxing. Hunting down the prick who hit you at the rally.”</p>
<p>“Cool,” says Grantaire. “Down for all of that. Cheese fries first.”</p>
<p>“It’s breakfast,” Enjolras mutters bitterly, like strict adherence to breakfast foods is in the Constitution.</p>
<p>“Boo,” says Grantaire.</p>
<p>“Boo!” Bahorel echoes, and throws Grantaire over his shoulder very gently to kidnap him, and then they do almost everything they planned. By the time he’s dropping Grantaire off and teaching him their secret handshake, it’s almost time for bed. His and Enjolras’ relationship? Grantaire doesn’t know. Grantaire’s fine with not knowing. Everything’s great.</p>
<p>Everything’s just fine.</p><hr/>
<p>It becomes obvious that Enjolras still intends to sleep on the couch, which is frankly ridiculous. It’s making Grantaire guilty.</p>
<p>“Okay,” says Grantaire, when the blankets are once again being removed from the closet (when did they get back in there? If Enjolras knew he’d use them again, why the hell did he refold them?). “You have a king-sized bed.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know me,” Enjolras reiterates firmly. He fluffs the damn pillow, like that makes a point.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Grantaire wheedles. It's not like Enjolras is going to <em>do anything</em>. And Grantaire burns for Enjolras no matter the space or apparently time between them, so couch or bed? Not a big deal. </p>
<p>“No,” says Enjolras, almost <em>bored</em>. They can probably argue in their sleep. Maybe it’s relaxing, at this point.</p>
<p>“Okay, well, you’re a stranger who’s fed me and housed me, so I’m not too concerned. Additionally, I’m pretty sure my virtue and virginity, though I had neither before we started dating, have been thoroughly fucked out by you at this point.”</p>
<p>A sigh. Whipping the blankets out over the coach, Enjolras grumbles, “do you have to do that?”</p>
<p>“Do what,” says Grantaire, contrary. “Mention that we’ve… canoodled?” Enjolras huffily tucks in a corner. “Banged? Boooned?” He draws out. Boned, apparently, is too far.</p>
<p>“Must you aggressively probe our sex life?” Enjolras explodes, drawing up to full height. If this were a painting, his angelic wings would be in spread. “Relationships can be meaningful without physicality!”</p>
<p>It is probably not a good idea to take advantage of the phrase <em>aggressively probe</em> in conjunction with <em>sex</em>.</p>
<p>“Well it’s my sex life too, and—whoa,” says Grantaire, potential epiphany dawning. “Whoa.” And suddenly, things are realigning. “Okay. Look, if you’re some flavor of ace and not always down to… remember our sexytimes or whatever, that is relevant information to share with your confused amnesiac boyfriend. Um. Ex-boyfriend?” Enjolras doesn’t respond. It is possible Grantaire doesn’t have a firm grasp on grey asexuality, but he’s grabbing for straws here, hoping one holds the answer. “Did you think I’d flip out? I can tell I was comparatively disappointing at twenty-one but I’m not—I’m not that shitty. And here you are letting me verbally hump you, hell—”</p>
<p>“No!” Comes the interruption. Enjolras is taking in drags of air past his palms, which are resting on his face. “Yes. No. You have a right to ask. <em>Grantaire</em>.” Enjolras is supposed to be good at speeches. He’s in law school. Grantaire waits, and Enjolras seems to gather himself. “I enjoy sex and I do experience attraction.” <em>Enjolras fucks</em>! His brain klaxons immediately, and he almost doesn’t hear: “so that’s not why we—we didn’t do anything.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Anything.</em>
</p>
<p>Grantaire stops cold. Despite the water earlier—constant water, Enjolras’ insistence—his mouth goes dry. The tide of his heartbeat is rising in his ears.</p>
<p>“We haven’t done <em>anything</em>?”</p>
<p>There has been one puzzle piece constant in this. The guy clearly doesn’t care for Grantaire’s personality. He’s bestowed the level of trust you’d offer someone you were stuck in a college course with who you hoped would take notes for you on sick days. The theory for why he’s wasting his time on Grantaire has mainly revolved around the Jupiter-sized elephant in the proverbial room: they’re swimming in sexual tension. Drowning.</p>
<p>Enjolras walks in and opens his mouth, Grantaire’s whole body sings like a livewire. Grantaire walks in and I-colorcode-my-taxes-and-include-a-vicious-note-to-my-representative Enjolras stares at him like he wants to shake him so hard his clothes fall to pieces. Like he’s going to kick over his own pedestal and tackle Grantaire to the floor.</p>
<p>Grantaire has spent a guilty shower envisioning exactly how they used to work that out.</p>
<p>“No,” Enjolras hisses, dispelling that fantasy. “We’d done nothing.” He throws up two hands, conceding some kind of point. “We’d kissed.”</p>
<p>“Where?” says Grantaire, and he means like—on the knee or thigh or climbing higher, warmer, but Enjolras instead says, choked,</p>
<p>“In public.” A distressed hum. “Mostly.”</p>
<p>“…What?” Of all the answers to <em>what are we</em> he hadn’t thought it’d be <em>voyeurs</em>. “Like—which body parts?”</p>
<p>“Our <em>lips</em>.” Before Grantaire can even go on, he growls, “closed mouth, Grantaire.”</p>
<p>Grantaire locks his jaw. “That’s interesting, because in the hospital I definitely felt some tongue—“</p>
<p>Great, that results in a full-body flinch. Like it’s a reminder that he licked a shoe instead of the curve of Grantaire’s bottom lip. “That was the first time.”</p>
<p>“Bruising and hospital gowns a turn-on for you?” He guesses acidly.</p>
<p>Enjolras’ voice is dangerously flat when he replies, “no.”</p>
<p>Time to change tactics.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Grantaire pleads. He swirls one finger in a circle between them. “You’re telling me we’re dating and have this much chemistry and have never <em>once</em> done something with it? Are we Catholic? Are we waiting for the marital bed?” Judging by what he’s heard from Jehan and Courfeyrac, their group is pretty much all hedonists.</p>
<p>Reeling, like he’s been slapped, Enjolras snaps, “you don’t understand.” Yeah, exactly. “You’re not him. What you’re feeling isn’t—it isn’t how he felt.”</p>
<p>Grantaire is tired of being told how he feels, or felt, or anywhere in between. But. Enjolras’ hands are trembling. Grantaire is prodding at something damaged. Maybe Enjolras had a bad experience, and Future Grantaire had understood, and Grantaire now is being an asshole. Maybe—oh. <em>No</em>.</p>
<p>“Does one of us have a STI?”</p>
<p>“Fuck,” gasps Enjolras, blue eyes going huge. “I shouldn’t have put you in a position to question that. Grantaire, no, you’re healthy, you’re well, the lack of intimacy isn’t—the reason isn’t anything bad.” He flinches again. “Or. Nothing related to your safety.”</p>
<p><em>So it is bad,</em> Grantaire thinks. If only to slam the gas pedal of his thoughts right past Enjolras using the word <em>intimacy</em> instead of <em>sex</em>. Maybe Enjolras says intimacy because it’s fancy, not—because lovemaking would be their style. Their style if they… had a style.</p>
<p>“I realize this isn’t fair,” Enjolras says. “But your amnesia hasn’t been going on long. Explaining us when you could remember everything tomorrow and avoid the burden of it while you’re recovering is better. And I have an… an important reason. One that you agreed to prior to your amnesia.”</p>
<p>What. What does that <em>mean</em>.</p>
<p>“Wow!” marvels Grantaire. “That soothes me completely, and I will no longer question this bullshit at all!” He crosses his arms, squeezes them in tight around himself, self-comfort. “How am I supposed to believe in this supposed agreement?”</p>
<p>Enjolras sounds small but cornered, fighting, when he says, “I’m not sure how to make you believe in it. Or how you’ll respond. At this age you didn’t believe in a thing I said. If you… spread what I tell you, over social media, there will be consequences. We’re—we’re complicated,” he finishes helplessly.</p>
<p>Grantaire is getting very sick of that word. Nauseous. It’s his turn to tremble and shake, to grit his teeth.</p>
<p>“Do you think,” he hisses, harsh, “I’m some kind of delicate idiot? What could possibly be—so fucking <em>complicated </em>or rife with <em>consequences</em> about us, Enjolras? Are you an alien? Did we hide a dead body together? Are we in a witness protection program? Am I so unreliable that you can’t share a drop of information with me? Am—“</p>
<p>The ranting stops, if only because instead of yelling back, Enjolras draws into himself.</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” he murmurs, “<em>please</em>.”</p>
<p>And that’s it.</p>
<p>It’s over. The dueling emotions of wanting to either shout Enjolras down or shove him against a wall and kiss him so hard neither of their tongues are functional for a week sizzle out, and all that’s left is—is this. Soft longing.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Grantaire says, yielding, open. “Okay, Enjolras.” He takes in a deep breath. Summons up his last reserve of courage. Apparently they don’t talk or have sex or do much of anything, but. “Do we hug?”</p>
<p>Enjolras laughs, and it’s wet and exhausted. “Yes. Yes, we hug.”</p>
<p>Grantaire opens his arms. After a long moment, Enjolras tumbles into them, buries his face in Grantaire’s neck. On this ridiculous IKEA couch, his heartbeat still racing from the argument, he leans his head against Enjolras’ curls and holds on. Enjolras shifts, curling closer, fingers spasming to grip the fabric on his back. All warm, and fleetingly solid. Sun god in the flesh. Grantaire presses a palm in one slow circle on his back, trying to soothe, but Enjolras shudders. Shudders and rubs his face against Grantaire’s neck, squirming closer, settling in. It’s stunningly good.</p>
<p>Fuck. If they have this, they don’t need sex.</p>
<p><em>Remember</em>, he tells himself. <em>Come back</em>. With his lot in life, Grantaire never thought he’d be the subject of anyone’s envy. Much less his own.</p>
<p>“We’re good at this,” Grantaire hums.</p>
<p>He feels lips move against his pulse point, when Enjolras mumbles back, “lots of practice.”</p>
<p><em>Or don’t</em>, Grantaire amends. <em>Or don’t come back, Future Grantaire.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Let me keep him.</em>
</p><hr/>
<p>Previously he’d been avoiding their text message history, because—well. Historians have since proven him wrong, but Grantaire was under the distinct impression he’d open it up to find booty calls and some sexts that would’ve felt like a gross invasion of privacy. Consent. Musichetta would be proud. He thought he had access to naked Enjolras images and he’d <em>resisted</em>. That basically elevates him to sainthood.</p>
<p>All for naught, apparently. Now, with only minor trepidation, he opens the messaging app. He should scroll up—he should read in order—but he can’t stop himself from tipping the screen his way and chugging them down in reverse.</p>
<p>
  <em>Grantaire?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Crowd’s getting restless. Counter protestors on east side. Go home.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We can’t wait for you. Catch up at city hall.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ep and I coming up Grand Ave</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Where are you? Did you oversleep again? I know I kept you up.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Going to rally meeting point.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Grantaire.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Maybe we can get coffee and those pastries you like?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Before the rally.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>What I did.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Can we talk about what happened?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 5 mins</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Can’t sleep.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bring your sketchbook.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        can’t sleep.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        found him. thanks</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        call me</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>No. C&amp;C also say no. Can I help?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        seen Gav? Ep worried.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know you won’t let me down.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        not trilogy? sir u ask a lot of me</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes. Hobbit. Give me 10m</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        Lotr?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lamarque’s event got moved.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Free evening.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Calling.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        feel like i’m gonna burst out of my skin.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        wasn’t expecting it. getting bad feeling.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        friend of friend brought kegger&amp;edibles</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        can u call and ask me to leave party?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        10 mins.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Could you come over and just sit with me?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes. Planning for next week. Actually.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Cookies&amp;Cream helping?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not a good day.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        bored. hang tonight?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>yes. come on over</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bossuet needs cheering up. Are you home?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        Call me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I can’t sleep and you’re not a walk away.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>                                                                                                                        yeah?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Traveling feels strange now.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>----------</em>
</p>
<p>Grantaire closes the phone. He locks it. He throws it somewhere else on the bed and stares up, blindly, at the ceiling. Outside, it’s quiet enough that Enjolras is probably sleeping.</p>
<p>A whole life exists behind these. A whole world he’s supposed to belong in. Instead, he’s stuck on the other side, peering through the cracks for a glimpse.</p>
<p>Real people don’t <em>do</em> this. Who the fuck kisses in public but does nothing alone, who dates for a year and a half and <em>moons </em>and convinces their codependent what-is-a-personal-bubble friends that they’re disgustingly in love when-- when at least one of them says they're <em>not</em>?</p>
<p>Apparently the answer is: Grantaire. An enigma in every way.</p>
<p>If he’d read these messages a day ago he’d have assumed half were a request for a steamy round of fucking each other into the mattress. Except Enjolras wouldn’t lie. So—it’s not. And they’re breaking up, so it’s not—<em>can’t sleep and you’re not a walk away.</em> Fuck. Fuck.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know what it is at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>well R is Baffled but regular fanfiction consumers may have seen some of this before<br/>THANKS FOR STICKING WITH IT TIL THIS POINT<br/>it was never... supposed to get this long...hlrg<br/>i appreciate and adore any feedback. y'all have been so great. much love<br/>i hate the text message formatting but i can never figure out how to make it decent w/o inserting a pic, which i don't want, so?? sorry???<br/>i have a <a href="https://serinesaccade.tumblr.com/"> tumblr </a> now that is empty besides this fic. knock urself out<br/>As an important sidenote: kids being expected to have internet/computers to do their schooling has been growing more and more common, and then the pandemic just. just exploded it. i've tutored kids who did not have a computer but were expected to use one for school and you will not imagine the lengths some of them had to go to to work around it. it breaks my heart. i know it's a hard time, but if you can, please do look into it for yourself to help those causes out.<br/>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Grantaire figures some things out, whether it's for the best or not.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>all right well after *checks* 2 extra chapters i get to the place i wanted to be in chappie 2 so heeeeeey<br/>thanks for ur love, guys</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire thought he’d gotten pretty clean, but he’d failed to realize Future Grantaire just had different drugs of choice.</p><p>Between all the members of the ABC, he barely spends a day inactive—there’s always some happy-emergency meeting, or long meandering walks with Jehan, or Eponine texting him <em>loser</em> repeatedly until he responds, or Enjolras continuing in his never-ending quest of ‘triggering’ Grantaire’s poor brain by retracing a few years’ worth of steps. He sketches. He walks. Bahorel and Feuilly take him to the gym where Feuilly does <em>I’m watching you</em> gestures with his bloodshot eyes so he won’t sneak off and start using the heavier weights. He paints with Eponine’s siblings. Even Cosette and Marius swoop in, whereupon he learns—</p><p>“<em>You’re </em>in law school?”</p><p>“Hmm?” says Marius, who is currently having a raging internal debate about whether to sit on Cosette’s right or left at the café table, and doesn’t seem to have chosen a physical or philosophical side. Sheesh. Which side of her visage has received less worship today? The world may never know.</p><p>If Grantaire can have a fantastic lunch with these people, with Cosette blooming at him across the table and Marius somehow endearing, he’s in it deep.</p><p>But none of those—none of them—compare to an Enjolras hug.</p><p>The problem is, once he starts hugging Enjolras, he just can’t <em>stop</em>. They hug good morning and goodnight and Enjolras seems invested in treating this as casually as possible. Unfortunately, <em>casual</em> and <em>Enjolras</em> is just unrealistic.</p><p>Grantaire knows how to measure and parcel. He knows what happens if you take a hit too strong. Enjolras wears that stupid watch, and when he wraps around Grantaire, it <em>tick tick ticks</em>. So Grantaire counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Then he has to let go.</p><p>“You don’t remember?” Enjolras asks, at least once a day. The hugs are getting tighter. He lingers when Grantaire pulls away. This morning he sat on the counter while Grantaire played music and made breakfast, Ke$ha and Muse and some oldies Grantaire’s embarrassed to love. <em>Je suis fou de vous; pourquoi vous moquez-vous chaque jour; de mon pauvre amour</em>—</p><p>They’ve only got so much time.</p><hr/><p>“Where to today, fearless leader?”</p><p>He zips up his boots, pulls on the lace of Enjolras’ shoe until it unravels, half to annoy him and half so he rolls his eyes fondly from above and orders, “fix it, Grantaire.” He does not claim to be a complex man. When Grantaire’s done re-lacing, Enjolras replies hesitantly, “the library.”</p><p>Grantaire snorts. “The library?”</p><p>“I’m not a particularly exciting person,” Enjolras says, who makes even reading quietly look like a cage match, if he feels passionate enough about the subject matter. “I spend a good amount of time at the law library.”</p><p>“Ooh, well, hopefully they let the riffraff in,” Grantaire says, hopping to his feet. He doesn’t take Enjolras’ hand, he <em>doesn’t</em>, even if he’s already mourning the loss of his <em>see-you-later</em> hug. “Are you guys vampires from all the studying? Can they like, smell the sunlight on me? Is that how they sniff non-lawyers out?”</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras says, “but I sneak you in through the secret underground catacombs,” and okay, that <em>has</em> to be a joke, so he grins up at him, and—</p><p>“Aw, shit, I think Bahorel hid a Jolly Rancher in my shoe,” Grantaire grumbles, putting his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder for balance so he can pull out the offending candy. He’d offer it, but Enjolras is… staring again, like it’s unsanitary, so best not. He yanks the shoe back on. Enjolras still doesn’t open the door, so Grantaire bumps their shoulders and prompts,</p><p>“You ready?”</p><p>“You really don’t,” Enjolras swallows, “remember anything?”</p><p>Shit. Grantaire hates telling him no. “Maybe I had a fuzzy recollection yesterday?” He’s pretty sure it was standard deja-vu. Joly had been delighted to discuss the ramifications of that; he and Combeferre had a long phone call in practically another language. <em>Hippocampus! Amygdala! </em>It’d amounted to nothing.</p><p>He thinks Enjolras knows that, too.</p><p>“Okay,” Enjolras says. “Let’s go.”</p><hr/><p>The law library could’ve been a museum; all peaceful landscape paintings in oil alternating with stern judge and politician portraits. If he were in here alone, he’d be pretty tempted to vandalize them with moustaches, but Grantaire can tamp that down.</p><p>“I like the third floor,” Enjolras says, when Grantaire’s already chasing him up the second sprawling bannister. “For that elusive sunlight you seem to value.”</p><p>That has to be a joke too. Grantaire speeds up his stairwell climbing, races past the curls and red coat, grins back at him in challenge.</p><p>“I bet I can find your favorite chair,” he says. “Bet I get it first.”</p><p>When they’re settled amongst the wood, the sleepy smell of old books and spotted sunbeams around them, Grantaire sprawls back. Counts dust bunnies floating in the morning light. It’s secluded up here. Still.</p><p>“Got any paper?” He nudges Enjolras, gently, who seems to awaken and hand some over. Pulling the pen out from behind his ear, he rolls it between his fingers, contemplative. He likes the look of the arches and columns above. Drawing Enjolras, who is aglow and soft and perfect in it all, would be an injustice. It’s a shit gel pen and printer paper.</p><p>“Just tell me when you’re bored,” says Enjolras. “Or if you remember anything.”</p><p>“Why would I be bored?” Grantaire asks, to avoid the other question.</p><p>“It’s a library,” Enjolras says. “It’s stressed law students and tomes on the judiciary system.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Grantaire traces out the curve of one of the beams above them. “I might read one later, these things are hilariously stuffy. <em>We the people, of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union</em>,” he sing-songs, too high. “Oh, or I can find some fucked-up court cases. This one dude in 1993, he sued for emotional damages because drinking beer didn’t make him like, teleport to a beach or become handsome like in the commercials. People, right? So the books: sweet. The law students, though. Gotta avoid those. I heard there’s this blond guy—”</p><p>“You’re going to read,” Enjolras interrupts. It could be a command, or disbelief.</p><p>“Not to brag, obviously, but I’ve spent a lot of time chilling in libraries, and after a while you tire of people watching and drawing. The books are right there. The librarians foist them on you.”</p><p>“You,” Enjolras says flatly, “enjoy hanging out in libraries.”</p><p>“Most have a children’s section at my reading level,” Grantaire says, which unfortunately doesn’t stop Enjolras from saying,</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because it doesn’t rain indoors?” Grantaire lays out, feeling ridiculous. “Because, rich kid, they’re open a lot and nobody makes you buy an $8 latte to sit and use the internet?”</p><p>Enjolras blinks. “You’re being serious.”</p><p>“I’m bullshitting about 90% of the time, but <em>I like libraries</em> is not exactly your typical comedic Saturday Night Live routine,” Grantaire snorts. “Come on, I’ve seen both our apartments, and we look like book hoarders. We’re friends with <em>Jehan</em>. I bet we went on library dates all the time.”</p><p>Ducking his head, which practically sends a shining wave of light across the curls, Enjolras says, “I thought I was dragging you here sometimes.”</p><p>Here? Where Enjolras is practically posing for a portrait for hours on end? Future Grantaire had to be <em>forced</em>?</p><p>“Nah,” shrugs Grantaire. “I mean, bars are my scene, but—imagine a library with a bar. Infinitely superior.”</p><p>“You took me to one.”</p><p>Grantaire freezes, heart pounding. “Yeah?”</p><p>“The NoMad hotel,” Enjolras murmurs. “It was for our anniversary. They have French literature and cocktails. I didn’t understand this part, but you… really appreciated the staircase?”</p><p>Before he can stop himself, Grantaire says, “we did it in a public staircase?” Whoops. Not probing their non-existent sex life. “Sorry, sorry, habit. I know we, um, didn’t.”</p><p>Enjolras is made of marble, but somehow it heats, colors. Grantaire is beginning to think—is Enjolras <em>shy</em> when he’s not lecturing fascists? Holy shit. “It was imported from the south of France. You appreciated the architecture.”</p><p>The warm flush that rushes through his body at the idea of the evening completely overcomes his inner ramble of <em>god, we were super fucking weird.</em></p><p>“That,” he manages, “that sounds fun.”</p><p>“It was.” It’s not a smile, on his face.</p><p>“Hey, um,” Grantaire says. Everything’s shaking. The drawing of the library’s arches is doomed, the pen’s jerking, they’re melting and gloppy. “There’s stuff like the library bar, but. I don’t know if this is part of the… agreement or not. But. The way you talk, sometimes, it’s like he didn’t even like you.”</p><p>For a long moment, Enjolras says nothing.</p><p>“Grantaire,” he murmurs finally, “you’ve gotten the impression we didn’t get along. I don’t think you realize the full extent. The first meeting you came to, we were at each other’s throats. I—there were times when I yelled at you. In the heat of the moment I’ve said things about your work ethic and your hobbies and your life choices that I’m ashamed of.”</p><p>A beautiful angel, shouting at him, calling him out when he drank too much or partied too hard or didn’t get misty-eyed over transportation infrastructure laws. Grantaire knows he wouldn’t have reacted well. He would’ve spiraled.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m sure your yelling terrified all the orphans I was saving from burning buildings at the time,” Grantaire scoffs. Enjolras huffs. “Look, nobody knows I’m an asshole more than me. Some of it was merited. I’m sure I gave as good as I got.”</p><p>Enjolras has his book open. He’s pulling the pages up, letting them fan down, over and over.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says.</p><p>“Yeah, well, I do, and I wasn’t even there,” Grantaire replies. “I just—I don’t get why you’d date at all. If you didn’t—and he didn’t…”</p><p><em>What you’re feeling isn’t how he felt</em>, Enjolras had said, and—and Grantaire doesn’t understand <em>how</em>. Grantaire’s known him for and week and a half and he’s been in love with him for most of it. In terms of sheer attraction he’d been ready to press close, deep, since a second after he came into the hospital room that first night.</p><p>Grantaire has no right. Something happened, and they never did anything in private, and now they’re breaking up—</p><p><em>You may not have liked him</em>, he thinks dimly to Future Grantaire. <em>But I do</em>.</p><p>And that’s not fair. To him or Enjolras. How is Grantaire supposed to apologize, to ask forgiveness and lay prone at Enjolras’ feet, if <em>he doesn’t know what he did</em>? When this Grantaire could go up in smoke, and the guy he broke up with is waiting in the wings?</p><p>The look on Enjolras’ face, every time he shuffles forward helplessly and drops his head on Enjolras’ collarbone to say <em>night</em> or <em>headed out</em>—like Enjolras is shocked Grantaire’s capable of doing anything of the sort. Like some wild animal just charged out of the forest and let him put on a leash, pet its bloody horns.</p><p>Enjolras is just staring down at the book in his lap, sun shining through the dead trees outside, shadows swaying over them with the wind. As if it could hold any of the answers.</p><p>“Even with the potential breakup, you haven’t been a shitty boyfriend to me,” Grantaire says, because he can’t stop himself. “Four out of five stars. And that’s just because you burned breakfast the first day and still sleep on the couch. Otherwise—you’d be perfect, you know?” He’s sure Enjolras knows. That this isn’t an overstep. Perfect people don’t often fail to notice.</p><p>“Thanks,” Enjolras hums, but he doesn’t look up. “I think.”</p><p>Enjolras, who is so bold, who is unstoppable, can look so unsure when it’s about him.</p><p>“Hey,” says Grantaire, and this was his boyfriend. This was his boyfriend, right, so—“look, I’ve got evidence.” Law bitches love evidence.</p><p>That does get his attention. “Did you remember—“</p><p>“At this point the only thing I can remember is you asking that question,” Grantaire snaps, remembers his mission, and settles. “Just, um, here.”</p><p>Grantaire’s done tons of stupid shit; he can do stupid, self-destructive shit for the right reason, for once. He takes Enjolras’ hand. They’ve hugged, but they haven’t held hands since that first night.</p><p>The reaction’s immediate: the tingle. The electricity and the rush. The ache.</p><p>“This body’s pretty much all of him that’s left at the moment,” Grantaire says, “and I promise, it doesn’t hate you. It feels…” There’s no words.</p><p>“Right,” Enjolras finishes. Their fingers squeeze. Warm. He’s got ink splashed on his thumb. “It feels right.” That’s not the word either. But if Enjolras can’t find it then—then Grantaire never will. They don’t let go for a long time.</p><p>Though he’d sworn he wouldn’t, with his meager supplies, Grantaire ends up drawing him anyway. No medium, nothing, can capture Enjolras. So he does the best with what he’s got.</p><hr/><p>There are so many photos in his camera roll—he scrolls through about 20 selfies of Bahorel in various disgusting poses. Another 10 of Eponine sarcastically discovering her middle finger and flipping him the bird while she sprawls on a beanbag chair. Jehan always takes photos of their clothes but doesn’t actually seem to enjoy being photographed—they duck their face down into their elbows in any candid. He’s got at least one of them alone together, an arm around their shoulder and both of them laughing.</p><p>There are about a million of Enjolras, and most of them unawares. That’s why it takes him so long to find the video. It starts off in the kitchen, rustling and banging, and then his own voice,</p><p>“<em>Today we observe the young law student and political intern in his natural habitat: a Friday night spent grinding his teeth down over his laptop—“</em></p><p><em>“Grantaire,” </em>comes Enjolras’ exasperated voice as his golden hair comes into view. He is indeed crunched over a laptop, papers and books in a sprawl about him. <em>“I told you to go by yourself. What are you doing?”</em></p><p>
  <em>“You passed on ABC movie night, so I’m making a movie of my own.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m working. Go to Courf’s.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Without you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes.”</em>
</p><p>There is a brief pause, and then, <em>“the dual law-student-political-intern is an endangered breed—“</em></p><p>Enjolras reaches over to throw a couch pillow at him with a <em>“Grantaire!”</em></p><p><em>“Approach with caution! They’re extremely territorial and known for their displays of violence, which they warn of by flashing their—their red plumage—“</em> Video-Grantaire’s cracking up now, the whole video shaking with it. Grantaire wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t see it with his own eyes, but video-Enjolras isn’t approaching to murder him, just smack him with another throw pillow.</p><p><em>“Stop!”</em> Enjolras protests, but he’s <em>laughing</em>. “<em>Seriously, I have to—stop stop stop stop!”</em> Is he fucking tickling him? And Grantaire’s still alive?</p><p>“<em>C’mon, you’ve got that crease in your brow that means you’re too stressed to get anything done. Come to movie night. Am I wrong?”</em></p><p><em>“You’re wrong,” </em>Enjolras says immediately, like a reflex, but he doesn’t go back to the desk.</p><p><em>“Live a little today, Enj,</em>” Future Grantaire coaxes, and there’s such sweet conviction in it. Such certainty. <em>“It’ll help you save the world properly tomorrow.”</em></p><p>It doesn’t sound like Grantaire at all.</p><p><em>“Put the camera down, Grantaire,”</em> Enjolras says. <em>“I’m coming.”</em></p><p>The video ends.</p><p><em>How he felt</em>, Enjolras had said, except more than ever, Grantaire’s sure he knows. No matter what he’d felt at the start, by the end he’d—he’d—</p><p>Grantaire wishes he could be done piecing together his own life.</p><hr/><p>It’s Wednesday. Of course meetings are on hump days; while most people are chugging blearily through the week, justice club’s blowing whistles and starting fires. Breaking the law. Making… the law.</p><p>“You don’t need to nap on the couch, you know,” Enjolras tells him. “There’s a functional bed.” <em>Hypocrite</em>. Besides, Enjolras works at the desk, which is next to the couch. Grantaire has to nap here. “Are you going to do this before every meeting? Sleep all day?”</p><p>Grantaire opens one eye. His head hurts. Coincidences are real, and they are terrible. “Maybe.”</p><p>“You don’t have to go,” Enjolras says, after a moment.</p><p>“I’ll go,” Grantaire moans, rolling over and smushing his face into the couch cushion.</p><p>“Mm, I’m convinced. Even Joly couldn’t match that level of enthusiasm.”</p><p>“Shh,” Grantaire tells him. “Too loud.”</p><p>“Too loud? You—“</p><p>“<em>Shh</em>,” Grantaire repeats, and then there are fingers in his hair, and Enjolras is murmuring,</p><p>“Are you… are you in pain?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Grantaire admits. “A little.” Grantaire’s cranky for kicks sometimes, but it’s usually—exhaustion. Withdrawal. Drunkenness. Pain. Panic. “If you take me to a doctor I’ll bite. They said s’ normal. The—headache. Not the biting.”</p><p>“They did,” Enjolras hums. “Grantaire? You have to talk to me.”</p><p>“We’re <em>talking</em>,” Grantaire says bitterly. He knows this, because he’s not <em>sleeping</em>.</p><p>“You have to tell me these things,” Enjolras is continuing. “Or I won’t know.”</p><p>Grantaire promises he’ll consider it, and then drifts off.</p><hr/><p>It’s on a Thursday, while he waits to buy Joly a cup of fries from the restaurant counter, that a cute girl in a <em>useless lesbian club</em> T-shirt stares him down instead of filling her soda.</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire. “It’s clear this isn’t a come-on. And I have,” kind of, “a boyfriend. What’s up?”</p><p>“I know you,” she replies, head tilting, and <em>shit</em>. Grantaire’s an amnesiac. Ironically, he keeps forgetting this. This girl hasn’t been at meetings, but like, justice club can’t be <em>everyone</em> Future Grantaire knew even if he’s interacted with no one else yet besides well-wishes from unknown coworkers and even a friendly <em>take your time to heal</em> from his boss, what the fuck, so—</p><p>“Oh!” Grantaire massages his voice into something resembling sheepish recognition. Finally, skills developed from waking up after being blackout drunk at a house party come in handy. He knew it. “Totally, good to see you.”</p><p>She blinks. “What? No, I mean,” suddenly she snaps her fingers, gasps. “You’re that guy!”</p><p>“I’m that guy?” he agrees. He’s never going to get Joly’s fries, at this rate.</p><p>“Oh my gosh, take a picture with me?” she asks excitedly, and then, for some reason, snags one of the little flags that come stuck in the bun of the burger meal and hands it to him. “Perfect. My girlfriend’s gonna flip. Smile!”</p><p>Grantaire is pretty sure he manages something resembling a smile. The fuck. They hand him Joly’s fries, and he wanders out to where the three of them and Eponine are waiting on a bench.</p><p>“Some girl just took a picture with me?” He says. “So you guys have to tell me which celebrity lookalike rose to fame since my amnesia.” And how they did it, with a face like his.</p><p>Eponine snorts. Wiggling his fingers for his fries, Joly says, like this is not mind-rending information: “ohhh, you still get recognized on the street, huh.”</p><p><em>Recognized? </em>Grantaire lifts the food up high. “Explain, Joly Bean,” he threatens, “or say goodbye to your precious snack.”</p><p>“Nooooo,” Bossuet moans.</p><p>“Enjolras didn’t tell you?” Musichetta asks, which is around the time Grantaire’s whole brain snaps to attention. He shakes his head.</p><p>“We can explain once we’re picnicking,” Joly says, pushing up. “Let’s ride.”</p><hr/><p>For January, the day is freakishly warm. They’re still bundled up, but it’s not unreasonable to eat outside. Once they’re situated in the park, spread out on a quilt with Joly sat tucked between Bossuet’s knees and outstretched legs weaved with Musichetta’s, he finally says, “Enjolras didn’t tell you how you got together?”</p><p>“Um,” says Grantaire, who honestly hadn’t even been able to picture it. When he first tried, it was all—all him doing something so monumentally stupid that Enjolras pushed him against a wall and shoved his tongue in, leaving Grantare helplessly gagging against his mouth, just so he’d stop talking. Once it was established that Frenching was a no-go, his theories had fallen to pieces. <em>Maybe I begged to paint him and he made a mistake? Maybe I lied and told him I was a charity organizer? </em>“No?”</p><p>“Aww,” says Bossuet. There’s a fork that’s somehow managed to migrate upright near his hand. Grantaire’s learned you don’t let Bossuet near sharps, so he subtly moves it.</p><p>“He’s the least romantic person alive,” Musichetta shrugs, munching on a chip. “It checks out.”</p><p>“Okay, is someone going to tell me, or do I have to start spitballing my own conspiracy theories? You guys don’t want that. Trust me.”</p><p>“We’ll reveal all!” Joly laughs. “Though we should really let Enjolras tell you this story on your own picnic date, but.” He beams, and Bossuet bounces his knees against Joly’s shoulders. “So, a little bit after gay marriage got legalized—“</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” His lunch goes flying. “<em>What</em>?!”</p><p>“Sorry, I keep forgetting.”</p><p>“Dude, that’s my whole personality right now,” Grantaire complains. “It’s my thing. You can’t take my one thing. But—gay marriage is <em>legal?</em>”</p><p>“Yeah, gay marriage!” Joly makes jazz hands. “Legal! I mean, according to the Supreme Court.”</p><p>Grantaire isn’t really sure how he’s supposed to listen to any story but that one, but he just nods and weakly says, “obviously, okay, then what?”</p><p>“Here,” says Bossuet. “I’ll help. There were some protests on its anniversary the next year, and states were considering going against the ruling, so we set up counter-protests, obviously. They were focused on hate, so we focused on the opposite.”</p><p>“Love,” Musichetta chimes in, lazily.</p><p>“Love!” Joly declares, swinging his cane and just missing Bossuet. “And what a glorious day it was! Parades! Street art! Televised interviews of real LGBT couples on the street. In the middle of it all: you.”</p><p>“Your dramatic bitch ass,” Eponine clarifies from where she’s sunning on her back.</p><p>“Come on,” says Bossuet. “It was adorable. Enjolras had arranged everything with the TV station, obviously. He and Combeferre had selected couples to interview in advance, just in case none of the people on the street volunteered. Our main couple was perfect—it was Cosette’s dads, actually!—they’d been together for <em>years</em>. Like, decades. But then: tragedy struck.”</p><p>“Trust me,” Musichetta says, leaning to kiss Bossuet on the cheek. “He knows how tragedy strikes.”</p><p>“They couldn’t make it to where we were filming,” Joly picks up the story, practically bouncing. “Some kind of police barricade, and then the opposing protest line, and they had to stop and help some guy in a car accident because Cosette’s dad is really ripped?”</p><p>Grantaire mouths <em>really ripped</em> at Eponine, and she just stares at him, deadpan. <em>Yeah, that’s accurate. What’s to question about that?</em> God, Grantaire loves it when she fucks with him.</p><p>“Look, it was a series of unfortunate events. Between that and one of our other couples dropping out because they were worried about their job, we were missing some interviews. The TV crews were getting restless. And Enjolras—you know Enjolras—he was practically mugging cute couples in the street. It was horrific.”</p><p>“You!” Eponine gasps, pointing off into the distance. “You look aesthetically pleasing, stable, and are wearing rainbow! Come and be an ambassador to the straight people! It is our civic duty.”</p><p>Bossuet winces. “It sounds bad. But he just—believes in it so much, you know?”</p><p>“I know,” Grantaire mutters. If there’s one thing Grantaire gets, it’s that.</p><p>“Anyway, Enjolras is terrorizing the masses, Courfeyrac is trying to seduce his way into a stable and loving gay relationship in under fifteen minutes so <em>he</em> can be the interview, Combeferre’s still trying to direct the event, it’s <em>chaos</em>. Finally, you just grabbed Enjolras by the elbows and dragged him away from some lesbians—who weren’t dating but I’m pretty sure Enjolras got them to start—and! And!” Joly can’t finish. He’s giggling too much. “He—he begins orating about—“</p><p>“’The people will rise,’” Musichetta announces, in a serious and inspiring tone that has Joly and Bossuet in stitches.</p><p>“He <em>didn’t</em>,” Grantaire says.</p><p>“Oh, honey,” Musichetta pities. “You’re the one in love with him.”</p><p>There’s a silence, at that. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. That it’s true, maybe even now? Eponine reaches out one foot and nudges Bossuet, very lightly. “The story.”</p><p>“The story,” Bossuet agrees. “Well, we laugh today, but it was really somber at the time.”</p><p>“For everyone but you,” Joly beams. “You snagged this massive pride flag and got on one knee, which I’m pretty sure was just for effect, but it worked because it made him go speechless for possibly the first time. Then you told him that if he needed a gay couple so badly, he shouldn’t be a hypocrite about his own advice on activism and should take. Up. The flag. Himself.”</p><p>Holy <em>shit</em>. “I <em>didn’t</em>,” Grantaire begs, horrified. “Eponine, <em>I didn’t</em>.”</p><p>“You did,” Eponine informs him. “It was embarrassing. And also extremely photogenic.”</p><p>Grantaire freezes. “What?” <em>Photogenic</em> isn’t a word he’s ever heard used to describe himself before.</p><p>“There’s like a hundred articles on it. There were cameras from <em>every angle</em>. You should see the zoomed-in shots and academic analyses of both of you tenderly feeling up the pole together. I mean—it was <em>Enjolras</em>.”</p><p>Shit. Yeah. Suddenly, it makes a lot of sense. The word <em>photogenic</em> has a photo of Enjolras as the entire dictionary definition.</p><p>“Tell me the pride flag was like,” Grantaire says desperately, “wrapped around my face the whole time?”</p><p>Eponine scoffs at him. “Please. I’d done your waterproof makeup that day, because it was about 100 degrees, and on your top half you were only wearing rainbow suspenders. People wanted to lick the sweat off your biceps.”</p><p>“Uhh?” says Grantaire, who does not have biceps. Automatically, his hands fly to his upper arms, and—“<em>I have biceps</em>.”</p><p>“You box a lot,” Joly says. “Also, I think you hadn’t really finished puberty yet five years ago. But that’s just a theory.”</p><p>“Anyway,” says Bossuet. “Happy ending, the scene after that practically <em>was</em> the interview and you guys started dating. By the next week you got dragged into like… <em>CNN</em> interviews. I think somebody won an influential photo award from Time with you two.”</p><p>“It’s—I haven’t seen it?” Grantaire says, feeling dizzy.</p><p>“Yeah, you guys are weird about it,” Musichetta says. “We hang up sequentially bigger posters of the photo in Enjolras’ apartment every holiday and birthday to tease you, and I think you’ve burned all of them.”</p><p>“I commissioned Jehan to write an epic poem on the topic for your last birthday,” Eponine snickers. “Best money I’ve ever spent. Forcing you guys to listen to an hour-long embarrassing recitation about your love life? Priceless. Your <em>face</em>, Grantaire.”</p><p>“Anyway,” Bossuet says. He is determined to finish the story. From what Grantaire has grasped, Bossuet is great at staying focused because he is going to be beset by some setback no matter what he does, and he has no extra time for distractions. “Really helped your exposure on the art scene, and Lamarque called up Enjolras after the first feature in the New York Times. It’s crazy to think that it was a year and a half ago. It feels like forever.”</p><p>“Forever,” Musichetta agrees on a groan. “Especially when you do the…”</p><p>No one elaborates.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Grantaire breaks. “When we do the what?”</p><p>“Ugh, make Joly and Bossuet demonstrate,” says Eponine.</p><p>“Neither of us could keep a straight face,” Joly protests. “You’re good at impressions, Ep. Borrow our girlfriend.”</p><p>Eponine lays a hand on Musichetta’s forearm. “Oh, Enjolras,” she simpers. “Be naïve again about the inherent good in man.”</p><p>“You feckless fiend,” Musichetta drawls. She is not a particularly vivid choice for Enjolras. “You know what I like in my men. <em>Insurgency.</em>”</p><p>“Insert political debate here,” Eponine offers. “And then you both just…” She opens both palms upwards towards the sky in a slow arc. “Stare. And once you were dating, it mostly became the second half of that. Punctuated by you dragging each other off to, and this is an <em>actual excuse you gave us</em>, ‘go duvet shopping.’”</p><p>“Hey,” says Grantaire. “We did go duvet shopping.”</p><p>“And then christened it,” Eponine snorts. No wonder Grantaire got the impression that, at some point, they had a flourishing sex life.</p><p>“This’s been enlightening,” Grantaire says. “But if we speak on the subject in this public park for much longer, it’s clear to me now that my numerous fans and admirers will swarm us.”</p><p>“Ugh, we shouldn’t have told him, he’ll be insufferable,” Eponine groans, rolling to face them, but she smirks at Grantaire. Cat-got-the-cream. “Eat your lunch, loverboy.”</p><p><em>Famous</em>, he thinks, watching Joly slide one of Musichetta’s chips down his cane into his mouth, Bossuet chanting encouragement, <em>me and Enjolras. Who’d have thought</em>?</p><hr/><p>When they drop Grantaire off at home, Enjolras isn’t there. All the better. Eponine, looking up from her phone, says: “five minutes. I think you can be by yourself that long.” Five minutes. Grantaire can work with that. He gets on his laptop and slams his own name in the search bar.</p><p>It’s there. The photos are the only thing that make it feel even remotely real—Grantaire on one knee on pavement, Enjolras in front. Both of them waving the flag, together.</p><p>The lock in the front door clicks. Grantaire goes to fumble the window shut, but he’s not used to it being a touchscreen, and by the time Enjolras is inside and shutting the coat closet, all Grantaire’s done is blow the photo up to encompass the entire screen.</p><p>“Good evening, I—oh.” There’s a pause. “You asked. They told you.”</p><p>“Yeah, they... bared some truths.” He’s managed to zoom in on his own nipple, now, which is peeking out from behind a rainbow suspender. Grantaire hates everything. “Sorry, shit, I’m sure this is weird to look at when I’m not him and we’re not together anymore. Probably.”</p><p>Enjolras is stiff, yanking a curl around his finger and releasing it, before straightening.</p><p>“Grantaire,” he finally says. “Have you remembered anything else?”</p><p>Managing to finally exit the fullscreen photo, leaning back in the desk chair, Grantaire heaves in a relieved breath and replies, “nothing. As usual, no neurons firing up here.”</p><p>Enjolras frowns at him.</p><p>“I’d hoped the memories might return,” Enjolras says, slow. “So I wouldn’t have to put this on you. However, as time goes on the moral and emotional consequences of keeping this to myself are getting more severe, so I think.” He closes his eyes. “I think it’s better you know.”</p><p>Dear god. He’d practiced this, hadn’t he? Grantaire can practically see the notecards. Why would he practice talking to Grantaire? Grantaire’s a mess, and he’s in love with him. Enjolras could scream the Polish constitution at him in its original language and he’d probably eat it up.</p><p>“Okay,” says Grantaire. Because he’s terrible, and beginning to get hammered with nerves, he follows it with: “I’ve dealt with some shit. You don’t need to patronize my feelings. Just say it.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to—“ Enjolras makes a noise. “The doctors said no major disruptions.”</p><p>
  <em>Just say it.</em>
</p><p>“That’s a weak excuse and you know it,” Grantaire shoots back, and he’s not sure where that conviction came from. “Should a government keep information from its people to protect them? Or is it their right to know?”</p><p>“Okay.” Enjolras scrubs both palms up and down his face. “Yes. I’ll tell you. Just—share what you learned today.”</p><p>Grantaire tries to remember, to shorten and summarize. “Um. There was a LGBT rally for the anniversary of gay marriage legalization, it was super important because conservative states suck, and you couldn’t find any couples to interview for television. So.” Enjolras isn’t diving in to announce <em>you’ve got it all wrong!</em> and Grantaire’s completely certain he would, so Grantaire continues. “I asked you to date me by offering you a flag, and you took it, and then wham! The whole country lost its goddamn mind. Is that accurate?”</p><p>Swallowing, Enjolras says, “almost. With—a caveat about the dating.”</p><p>“A caveat?” Grantaire prompts.</p><p>“A caveat,” Enjolras repeats faintly. “A major one.”</p><p>“O…kay?” All relationships involve compromise. Maybe Enjolras’ caveat was <em>never shall you lay a finger on me, drunkard.</em></p><p>“I mean.” Enjolras is looking at the ceiling. “You don’t remember this, but—back then you spent most of our interactions mocking my ideals and work. When I was trying to find a couple to interview, and couldn’t, you pulled this. And I.” He shifts, clears his throat. Still won’t look at Grantaire. “I understood. I got that it wasn’t serious. Unfortunately, in the age of the internet, it didn’t stay a… private prank.”</p><p>Grantaire goes cold. His stomach's churning. “Right. We went viral.”</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras admits. “Yes, we went viral, and suddenly even networks who were wary of discussing LGBT rights wanted a piece of us. I’m not—at first we thought it was acceptable. After all, we weren’t together, but we were still members of the community, and someone was finally interested in <em>listening</em> to our voice. But it just kept getting bigger, and. There were specials and magazines and at least one article calling us The Pleasing Form Of The LGBT Movement. Everyone already accuses our community of being a phase, or for attention, or fake, can you—“ His voice is rising, trembling. “Can you imagine the damage it would’ve caused if the title on that Times front page article was along the lines of <em>Fake Gay Publicity Stunt Comes to Light?</em>”</p><p>“Shit,” Grantaire says, with feeling. “Shit, <em>shit</em>.”</p><p>Enjolras laughs wildly. “Shit,” he repeats, "we faked it, we faked it," and then—oh no. No, no. Enjolras is crying.</p><p>“Please don't cry,” Grantaire says automatically. “It's okay.”</p><p>Enjolras looks up, and beneath the tears his gaze is <em>burning</em>. “Don’t. Sometimes I cry when I’m angry with myself, Grantaire. Do you think I haven’t reaped the rewards of this lie? Because I have. Senator Lamarque first gave me the time of day because of this. I had politicians forced to tolerate me because of this. Your art finally got the attention it deserved, but besides that, you probably always suffered from it. You never complained, and now.” He wipes his eyes roughly, squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Now you aren’t even the one who consented to perpetuating the falsehood in the first place.”</p><p>“I mean,” says Grantaire, feeling like he needs to be on the opposite side. Even if that side is against himself. What kind of devil’s advocate does that? “It sounds like I was being a douche. Like maybe I deserved some karmic retribution. As for you—it doesn’t sound like you were cackling and rubbing your hands together over this salaciously deceitful plan.”</p><p>Enjolras jerks to glare at him. “What?”</p><p>“I mean, I went down on one knee? I fake-propositioned you in public at an event you were running when we apparently wanted to gouge each other’s eyes out with a pen?” Grantaire swallows, rubs the back of his neck. “As an amnesiac I finally get to honestly say: I have no idea what I was thinking.”</p><p>Pressing his lips together, Enjolras returns his gaze to the floor. “I have no insight either.”</p><p>“I thought Future Me was on the up and up,” Grantaire says. “Seems like I hadn’t quite hit rock bottom yet.”</p><p>Enjolras takes in a breath. “No,” he shakes his head. “No, to be honest, you were. Changing. We were spending time together outside of meetings. Getting along well. You’d been up all the night before with me making last-minute posters and getting them to print, because our bigoted critics tore the old ones down and told the police the design was too risqué for the public eye.”</p><p>“Let me guess,” snorts Grantaire knowingly. “There were two dudes holding hands and they started crying about the children.”</p><p>“Most of them were stapled near massive billboards advertising male growth enhancers and television shows with half-naked heterosexual couples making out!” Enjolras explodes, coming alive.</p><p>“You can’t craft satire as ironic as the real world always ends up,” Grantaire offers.</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras breathes. “Yes. Exactly.” They smile at each other, just a little. It almost feels right. Grantaire can almost ignore the screaming mob of thoughts banging at the walls of his mind. “Trust me, our conversation was along those lines the whole night. So we were—getting along.”</p><p>“And then I pulled that,” realizes Grantaire, wincing. “I’m sorry. I know it might not mean much, coming from me, but. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Across the room, Enjolras stills on the couch. “Oh. You’ve—never said that before.”</p><p>That’s not an <em>I forgive you</em>. Grantaire abandons the computer, walks to meet his doom, drops on the couch beside Enjolras.</p><p>“Seriously,” he says. “I’m sorry.” It’s easier to apologize, when it wasn’t him. When the shame isn’t warring inside and demanding he hide, growling that he’s unworthy of forgiveness or retribution—</p><p>Enjolras throws two arms around him, tugs him close. <em>Yes, we hug</em>. Do they ever hug. Each time just gets better.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, softly, into the shell of Grantaire’s ear. “Despite everything, it may still have been a net positive for the movement. No regrets. We achieved good. And you were,” he pulls back from the embrace, and there it is, that smile. Though it’s a little rueful. “On the day of, you did so well. I panicked after I’d put my hands on the flag, when flashbulbs started going off and the camera crews came running over. Froze up. I hadn’t expected it. But you were so natural, Grantaire. I get the feeling you’re going to deny this,” his fingers are stroking the hair at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, “but you’re probably the most charismatic in our group after Courfeyrac, and you made it feel… real. For them. You made it feel real for everyone.”</p><p>Where is he supposed to look? There’s a vision in front of him, the perfect painting despite his best efforts to sabotage everything.</p><p>Instead, Grantaire looks back at the computer screen, across the room, the vibrant photos all in a row. Grantaire on one knee. Their hands linked on the flag. Raising it up. After, Grantaire beaming, one arm—bicep included— wrapped about Enjolras’ shoulders while he kissed him on the cheek.</p><p>Enjolras is acting like that’s some kind of <em>hardship</em> he took on. Like he was fucking <em>sacrificing himself</em> to lean in close and rub their noses together. To get the colored face paint from Enjolras’ cheek on his lips. That’s no sacrifice.</p><p>After a week and a half of knowing him, Grantaire would chase down a train for Enjolras. Take a shot of bleach. Jump out a skyscraper window.</p><p>Grantaire stomach drops, free fall, like he’s just done exactly that. <em>Shit</em>.</p><p>Shit. In a sickening lurch, Grantaire has an excellent vision of <em>exactly</em> what he was thinking that day.</p><p>The truth sings something along the lines of: <em>I’m in love with you, be beside me, don’t have me be on my own</em>. Enjolras hated him, and Grantaire was in love and slipped up and <em>showed it</em>, and then he spent god knows how long embarrassing himself. Leveraging a cosmic accident as an excuse—or a threat.</p><p>
  <em>Enjolras, let me come over, let me pick out your silverware and cook you dinner. Let me practically live next door. Let me take you to a library for our anniversary. If you don’t, oh, think how it’ll appear to the press! Think of the danger to human rights, Enjolras!</em>
</p><p>What was a person like Enjolras, who devoted his entire life to the cause, supposed to do? God, he probably hadn’t even questioned it. He hated ugly, boisterous, skeptic Grantaire, but following the footsteps of Joanne D’Arc and other rebels, Enjolras was willing to be a martyr.</p><p>“So the whole thing,” he says flatly. “The apartment. Us. The last… how long.”</p><p>“A year and a half,” Enjolras supplies dutifully. His hands are still on Grantaire’s spine, arms around him. “Grantaire, I don’t think your job would be compromised from this, but I’m not sure and with your health insurance and your injury I’m begging you to be cautious about social media—“ Grantaire’s not listening. Enjolras keeps talking, plans and numbers, and Grantaire can only think of one number.</p><p>One and a half <em>years</em>. Oh <em>god</em>.</p><p>“I’m not your boyfriend,” Grantaire murmurs, feeling hollow. “This is why I’m not your boyfriend.”</p><p>Enjolras looks down upon him from above, this angel, and with a face so carefully regulated, so tightly wound, says:  “Yes.”</p><p>With a crushing clarity, it all starts making sense. Grantaire didn’t fake it until he made it. Grantaire just straight up—<em> faked.</em> Faked<em> all of it</em>. Faked it harder and bloodier and more desperately than he ever had before.</p><p>Yeah, that sounds a lot more like the Grantaire he knows and has never loved.</p><p>Competent. Stable. Part of a strong community, in a loving relationship with possibly the best person he’s ever met? How had he ever fucking believed he’d pulled any of that off? And here he is, trailing after his supposed <em>boyfriend</em> and laying out every embarrassing desire in his head while Enjolras keeps him in the dark. No wonder he’s been having wave after wave of imposter syndrome, of disbelief—it’s <em>not real.</em></p><p>Future Grantaire doesn’t exist. There’s only ever been the Grantaire of now, and he hasn’t grown, hasn’t changed, hasn’t been <em>loved</em>.</p><p>“What are you think—“ Enjolras begins, sounding alarmed. He’s pulling back.</p><p>“Do you even like me?” Grantaire cuts him off, vicious. “Do you care about me at all?”</p><p>“We,” Enjolras looks like he’s about to cry again, but not with anger. “When we met, we didn’t get along, but—we became friends. I care for you. Of course I care for you.”</p><p>“Sure,” Grantaire scoffs, shoving back on the couch. “First case of self-induced Stockholm Syndrome. Just riddle me this: which one of your friends are in on it?”</p><p>“What?” Enjolras says hoarsely.</p><p>“Which. Of your friends. Know.”</p><p>“Courfeyrac and Combeferre?” Enjolras swallows hard. “They—neither of them. We agreed—“</p><p>“Yeah, I believe you,” Grantaire sneers. “What about Eponine? Jehan? Joly? Bossuet? Musichetta? Were they all playing stupid, or do they tolerate me because they think we’re dating for real?”</p><p>Enjolras stares at him. “Grantaire,” he whispers. “They’re your friends, too. You <em>know</em> that.”</p><p>Except Grantaire doesn’t. All of them are—are justice club, and Enjolras is the one they followed and adored before they ever laid eyes on the wreck that is Grantaire.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Grantaire tells him, advancing again, getting in his face. Enjolras is taller, and smarter, carelessly wielding his beauty. But Grantaire is rougher and nastier, and he has nothing, so he’s got nothing to lose. “Fuck you, fuck you, <em>fuck you!</em> I can’t believe I was desperate enough to let this happen. We’re complicated? This is not <em>complicated</em>, Enjolras. This is nothing. We’re <em>nothing</em>.”</p><p>They’re alike in one thing: Grantaire also always needs to <em>move</em>. To stay a drink or a dance or a restless nap ahead of his life, his choices, snapping fangs at his heels.</p><p>He’s done this before. Though not to this degree. Now he’s not sure what he owns, what to pack. The clothes he’s already worn, his battered phone and wallet, the nylon bag with the emblem of the hospital—those he can take. Those are safe. The keys to his apartment are still on the hook from where Enjolras had put them days ago.</p><p>Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to trail, to watch him whirlwind between the rooms. Gathering up this pitiful life.</p><p>He’s yanking his coat out, digging through the pockets and throwing out dollar bills and change until it’s clanging and rolling in circles on the floor. Maybe it’s not his. Grantaire’s never had money. It’s not safe.</p><p>“What are you doing,” Enjolras demands, but his voice is thin. He’s wringing his hands, probably because Grantaire is wrecking his nice apartment. His nice apartment, with its—its red curtains and Star Wars silverware and well-loved paperbacks with <em>thought you’d like to debate chapter 10 with me over a nice Merlot? –Yours, R </em>inscribed inside the front cover.</p><p>“What does it look like, genius? Logic it out.” Enjolras closes his mouth. His eyes are shining, misty. He’s awful, and Grantaire loves him. He <em>loves</em> him. “I’m leaving.”</p><p>Jamming on the coat, swinging the bag on, he gives the place a private farewell. It was nice to be here. Never again. He opens the door.</p><p>“Wait!” That voice is breaking, even as it commands. Even as the distinct sound of it has Grantaire turning, falling, like a siren call. “Please wait,” Enjolras gasps. “Grantaire, please.” He reaches out, and takes Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire knows how this goes. He knows how easily his whole self collapses and falls, spinning, into Enjolras’ gravity. Fingers squeeze Grantaire’s. They’re so warm. <em>Not real. Never real.</em></p><p>Grantaire’s not one of them. Not one of the ABC.</p><p>“What,” Grantaire releases, shattered and wrecked. “What could you possibly want now.”</p><p>He thinks, <em>you can’t hurt me more than you already have</em>.</p><p>But Enjolras is an overachiever.</p><p>“I love you,” Enjolras tells him, shaking. Shaking, unsure. Enjolras is supposed to care about everything; he’s supposed to be sure. “I’m in love with you, Grantaire.”</p><p>Even at twenty-one, Grantaire’s not naïve or foolish enough to believe that.</p><hr/><p>No matter the time, Grantaire has always been a weak person, so he recalls with perfect clarity where the nearest shitty liquor store is.</p><p>He’d dumped money from his pockets, but there’s two twenties in his wallet, and that’ll do. Once he’s drunk enough, he can’t feel the buzzing of his phone anymore. So that’s great. Unfortunately, it also means his walk home turns into a directionless meander. Streets and glowing neon signs. Strangers. Or, strangers to Grantaire. Maybe they know him. Maybe they hate him. Maybe they’ve pretended to care about him.</p><p>Maybe they’re satisfied, when he curls around his vodka handle, sideways on the pavement.</p><p>His phone keeps buzzing. It keeps raining. There are constants.</p><p>At some point he tries to hang up a particularly persistent call, but his finger goes the wrong direction. Stupid vodka.</p><p>“Grantaire?” Comes out, distant and tinny. “Grantaire, thank god. Enjolras said he didn’t know where you were.”</p><p>“Go away,” he tells the voice. “I figured it out. The jig’s up. You don’t have to. To.” He stops himself.</p><p>“Are you drinking?” Eponine’s voice slices through the air, even from far away. “Mother<em>fucker</em>, are you <em>drinking</em>? You could have a brain bleed!”</p><p>“Like you care,” Grantaire says. “Don’t worry, darling Eponine, I know I don’t belong in the heavenly chorus of <em>justice club</em>. I don’t remember you, and today it’s become clear that perhaps it’s best you don’t remember me, either.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“I’m talking,” Grantaire traces the face on the vodka bottle with one gritty finger. “About how you only care about me. Because. Because of my fucking ‘boyfriend’s’ <em>social</em> <em>club</em>.”</p><p>There’s a long silence. Grantaire’s drunk, and time is flying, he’s chronosthesia so fast so much, the world’s spinning so quick gravity is pressing him into the granite below. It’s still long, even for him.</p><p>“How dare you,” Eponine snarls. This isn’t apathy, for the first time, this is—outrage. It’s waking Grantaire up. “I introduced you to justice club. I knew you first.”</p><p>Grantaire stiffens. The world’s still spinning. “You knew me,” he slurs.</p><p>“Before Enjolras,” she confirms. “You’re mine, you got it? Forget five years of your life, Grantaire, forget Enjolras. Leave that glorious fucker in the dust. But don’t you <em>ever</em> forget me.”</p><p>Suddenly, he can see himself, as if from above. Drunk. Soaked with rain. Hunched and vomiting into a storm drain.</p><p>Mere days ago he’d been wearing Enjolras’ clothes, hugging him by candlelight in an apartment they practically shared, thinking <em>how did I get this lucky</em>.</p><p>“Eponine,” he hiccups, he sobs. “Eponine, I want to be him, I have to be him, but he’s not real. Help. I need help.”</p><p>“Dumbass,” she says, “we both know that’s why we’re talking. Where are you? I’m coming.”</p><p>Grantaire tells her, and then he lays back in a puddle, looks up at the roiling grey sky, and laughs.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>THANK U FOR READING<br/>FOR ALL UR CRAZY SUPPORT TO GET HERE<br/>these boys... killed me...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many conversations are had.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*huffs* i did it here you go sorry for the (relatively long) delay<br/>hopefully this concludes it nicely bc dang it these boys</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s—something. A dream or a fantasy. Where Enjolras wants him.</p><p>It’s late, he thinks. Late, but both he and Enjolras always have trouble sleeping, so. So he makes that eerily quiet walk in the dark, grins at Enjolras when he comes and opens the door because—because he heard Grantaire’s key in the lock and just couldn’t wait.</p><p>“Hi,” Enjolras says, wrapping around his shoulders in a hug.</p><p>“Hi,” Grantaire echoes back, pressing in so they stumble, holding together, across the threshold. “Mm. I know you’ve got a plan, Enjolras.”</p><p>“Star Trek,” Enjolras agrees into the side of his beanie. “Popcorn’s hot.”</p><p>But they don’t move. They don’t move for a while, just clinging, and Grantaire—he wants to so much that he can’t.</p><p>“Better be a good generation,” he says, too hoarse, breaking apart to toe off his shoes.</p><p>“I’m of the opinion it is,” Enjolras says.</p><p>“Come on, you have terrible taste,” Grantaire tells him fondly, reaching up to chuck him under his chin, the velvet underside of his jaw. “Give up the popcorn first.”</p><p>“I’ll get it. Go sit.”</p><p>By the time he’s got the bowl in his lap, they’re trying to organize, and nothing seems to work—his feet in Enjolras’ lap make the popcorn too far away, but he can’t just—just sit <em>next</em> to him, they have to—they have to.</p><p>He cuddles up, spine to Enjolras’ chest, and yeah. That’s the only way that will work. Enjolras’ hand is tracing up and down his arm, absently, his cheek against Grantaire’s hair while they watch and—Enjolras doesn’t even like popcorn, he doesn’t like—</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, when it’s 3am and Grantaire’s drowsy and Star Trek is just a distant drone, “look at me.”</p><p>He does, turning in Enjolras’ arms, and he’ll never get used to that. Used to Enjolras up close. All the perfect lines of him, that determined emotion.</p><p>“Say the word,” Enjolras tells him, seriously, “and I’ll stop.”</p><p>And then Enjolras kisses him. Once. Tender. And then—after he’s pulled back, taken a breath, he leans in for another. Nudges their foreheads together. Kisses him again, eyes lidded low. It’s so quiet, these hours of the morning, and Grantaire can hear everything. The <em>shush</em> of their hoodies against one another as they shift. The wet catch of their lips. He’s never—he’s never kissed someone like this. Without a party or a sex playlist or his own brain clamoring loud, so loud. With Enjolras, just for this moment, he’s at peace.</p><p>But it can’t last.</p><p>“There’s no one here,” Grantaire whispers.</p><p>“I know.” Enjolras brushes their lips. “I don’t care. Do you?”</p><p>Apathy used to be Grantaire’s entire existence, but he can’t answer.</p><p>“We don’t kiss more than once,” he reminds him. That was the rule, the limit. One kiss per outing. Just one. “And not alone. It’s—you love your quota.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Enjolras kisses him again, warmer, hands running down his sides, settling on his hips, “care. Do you, Grantaire?”</p><p>Grantaire doesn’t know. They’ve been faking it for so long and—he’d hoped but—they were just hopes and he’s never actually dared to <em>believe</em> in his own hopes—</p><p>“I can’t have this conversation right now,” he says. He needs a second. Yes, they’d been circling each other, but he hadn’t actually thought Enjolras would—that he’d—Grantaire has to figure out what this means, and he has to build up the courage to ask. Enjolras taught him to fight for himself, and if it happens it has to be—real. A real relationship. Grantaire has to have the clarity and the self-respect to ask for that. Last time, Enjolras hadn’t understood, and he can’t take that again. “Fuck, it’s late and I’m exhausted and you’re—you’re barely awake, and the rally’s tomorrow.”</p><p>“You could stay,” Enjolras says. It feels fumbling. “You’re right, it’s late, this deserves a proper conversation, I—I didn’t mean to. Sometimes I’m brash. You’ve encouraged me to take risks and I just—wanted.”</p><p>“It’s always late,” Grantaire says, instead of devolving into full-blown panic. It’s always late and Enjolras has never done this before. <em>I didn’t think this through</em>, Enjolras says. <em>I didn’t mean to. I just wanted.</em> Except—pressing forward, staccato, Enjolras kisses him again, a press of lips that lingers. Asks for permission.</p><p>“Please stay. I don’t want you to walk back now.” Grantaire’s walked back at this hour before. Pepper spray and a lifetime of MMA indicate Grantaire will be just fine. “Not to—not for that,” Enjolras tells him, when Grantaire is still frozen. “Grantaire—“</p><p>“I just need,” Grantaire’s heaving, he’s inhaling, “I just need a second. So we can talk later.” He’s pulling back on the couch, leaving Enjolras propped against the arm, the curve of him still rumpled and empty, the space that was Grantaire’s. He’s grabbing his keys. He doesn’t even stop to tie his shoes. “Tomorrow,” he hears himself saying. “Tomorrow we’ll talk and we’ll get it worked out and—yeah.” His eyes are stinging, but every other part of him feels like he’s about to jump off a cliff into the sea. High. “Tomorrow.”</p><p>“Okay,” says Enjolras. “Okay. I’ll wait, Grantaire.”</p><p>When he walks out into the night, he thinks, terrified and giddy and cracked open, except this time, the first time, the breaking reveals the inside’s better than the out—<em>I’m going to tell him. That I love him.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’m going to tell him everything.</em>
</p><p>He can see it, now, his life expanding, watercolor sweeping forward, sinking in. He’s in love, and Enjolras <em>kissed him—</em></p><p>Grantaire thinks it all happened, but he’s not sure.</p>
<hr/><p>Someone is dripping water on Grantaire’s face.</p><p>“Hey,” says Gavroche’s voice. The water dripping does not stop. “Ep said to get you up. I’ve been given permission to use force.”</p><p>Grunting, Grantaire rolls over to contend with his growing headache and the impossible weight of his own limbs. Because life is unfair, an additional weight slings itself atop him.</p><p>“Violence,” says Gavroche, fondly, and, catlike, pinpoints the exact location of Grantaire’s bladder so he can prop himself up on it with one elbow. “She’s making pancakes.”</p><p>“Uhhhhhh,” groans Grantaire. Gav flings a wet rag over his face, and it catches perfectly on his nose.</p><p>“These pancakes are worth reviving yourself for,” Gav says, very seriously. “And if you don’t, I’ll start spoiling Game of Thrones.”</p><p>It’s hard to spoil something Grantaire’s already read in the books. Besides, he has faith George R Martin hasn’t managed to get anything out since 2013. …he checked. Still.</p><p>“Should you be watching Game of Thrones?” He croaks, feeling comfortable in his cool rag cave. The response is a noise of pity.</p><p>“You really do have amnesia, huh.” Yeah, Grantaire’s seen enough of Gavroche even now to understand his idea of age-appropriate is really whatever-I-can-get-my-hands-on. “Are you and Enjolras fighting?”</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>“Define fighting,” Grantaire dodges, and—that’s enough to get him to sit up. The rag slides off his face—and yep, just like Enjolras, the sun explodes his entire mind just by existing. “<em>Ow</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s not really the kind of guy who’d throw a punch without a speech first,” says Gav. “I like him. He always talks to me like an adult.” Grantaire doubts Enjolras is capable of dumbing himself down, even for regular children, so this makes sense. He can just see Enjolas crouching, brows knit together, slowly enunciating <em>gerrymandering threatens citizens’ invaluable electoral power</em>. Shit. Enjolras and kids makes his chest ache. “No qualms about bribery, either.”</p><p>“What?” Grantaire mutters, nonbelieving, and braves a sniff of his own breath. Last night, Ep had shoved him mercilessly into the shower, and, stony-eyed, watched him wriggle into her largest sweatpants and worn T-shirt while horizontal on the couch. For passing out in the street, Grantaire’s doing great. His breath? Still disgusting.</p><p>“Dude gives me stuff to keep tabs on you. I feel like Secret Service. <em>The President is secure and still wearing his dumb hat, over</em>.” Of course. Enjolras probably has hawk-eyes on Grantaire’s social media to alert him to any potential reveal of their secret. “He hasn’t this time,” Gav continues. “So somebody fucked up, and I bet—“</p><p>“Pancakes are ready,” Eponine says, materializing at the end of the couch. “I said to get him up.”</p><p>Gav presents him with two hands and a jut of his head. Grantaire, in all his barely-sat-up glory, still squinting and probably looking queasy. Instead of kicking him out of her house, she approaches with a piled-high plate of something <em>buttery</em>, oh god.</p><p>“Eponine,” he says, the shreds of last night whirling in a dark rush through his head, “I am so, so sorry.”</p><p>“I know,” she says. “Assuming you had a reason. Doesn’t make it okay. Be better.”</p><p>And—and apparently <em>that’s all</em>. </p><p>“Okay,” he chokes, “just, I’m really, really so—“</p><p>“Look, I’m starving,” she interrupts, shoving the plate to waft deliciously under his nose, “time to re-experience the best food of your life.”</p>
<hr/><p>If Grantaire were a little more hipster, or had actual disposable income, he’d call himself a foodie. And these pancakes? Gordon Ramsey would weep.</p><p>The Pedialyte and pickle juice, on the other hand, are a disgusting combination.</p><p>“Both,” Eponine commands cruelly, withholding his second pancake until he chokes a glass down. After, she kicks her feet up in his lap, while Gav chews with his mouth completely open. When he attempts to dump the entirety of the syrup bottle onto his plate, Grantaire snags the end and hinges it to an angle that won’t give Gav a sugar high.</p><p>“Rude,” Gavroche informs him mushily.</p><p>“Don’t even fucking bring up manners,” Eponine says darkly. Tilting her head at Grantaire, she continues, “better this morning?” Grantaire was trying to avoid introspection. It feels like somebody dripped a whole can of paint through his ear, directly onto his brain. Swallowing a flawless bite of pancake, he attempts a positive facial expression. Eponine taps her heel against his knee. “Okay,” she says, like that’s response enough. “Azelma’s taking Gav out later this morning. We’ll talk then. Gav. What’s the homework situation?”</p><p>“What homework?” Gavroche says, about as earnest as—no. Grantaire doesn’t want to think about him copying Enjolras for his own, trickier purposes.</p><p>“Ugh,” says Eponine, “get it done by Sunday or I’ll have to do something drastically parental.”</p><p>“Oh no,” says Gavroche, carefully rolling up one syrup-soaked pancake into a burrito shape. “Grantaire, by the way, you owe me thirty dollars.”</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire.</p><p>“Yeah, we had a bet right before you lost your memory,” Gavroche nods, convincingly, and Eponine scowls.</p><p>“No extortion in the house.” Aggressively sawing at an innocent, fluffy pancake, she adds, “no extorting people with head wounds.”</p><p>“Really establishing strong parental standards, here,” Grantaire mutters, “bring down the hammer,” and she rolls her eyes and kicks at him fondly.</p><p>“You want to parent? Please. Let’s see it.”</p><p>“…Spongebob marathon?”</p><p>Because Eponine is a saint, she throws a notepad and graphite pencil at him before settling on the opposite end of the couch with a pair of knitting needles.</p><p>“Not a word,” she says, gesturing with them threateningly, and Grantaire shakes his head. Gavroche, who does not share Eponine’s aversion to physical affection or have any concept of personal space, sprawls over Grantaire’s shoulder from the couch arm and announces, “Azelma’s taking me to an R rated movie.”</p><p>“I thought only I was allowed to see R-rated movies. They’re for me.” At Gavroche’s scoff at the cheesiness, he amends, “R-rated for explosions?”</p><p>“Violence,” Gavroche repeats, curling around him. Eponine’s knitting needles click, and that ridiculous theme song starts up from the television. Nautical nonsense is something Grantaire wishes. He wishes it strongly.</p><p><em>I’m in love with you, Grantaire</em>, his brain reminds, and he wants to spiral, he does, but— he spiraled last night. He spiraled, and Eponine caught him in the freefall. She made him pancakes. She sicced her little brother on him.</p><p>“Turn the volume up?”</p><p>“Gav, stop heavy-breathing in his ear,” Eponine says, and taps at the remote before flinging it back on the scratched-up coffeetable.</p><p>“<em>Ahahahahhahaa</em>,” laughs Spongebob, arms wiggling, and it’s dumb. It’s so dumb. Gav snorts, even though he’s clearly trying to pretend cartoons are beneath him, and squishes a cheek still stubbornly retaining babyfat against the top of Grantaire’s head. From the end of the couch, Eponine flashes Grantaire a small smile. His drawing of Patrick Star is coming out at the correct level of cartoony dignity.</p><p>It almost, almost, doesn’t hurt anymore. Not even when Eponine says, voice pointedly casual, “is it okay if Jehan comes by too?”</p><p>Jehan’s so gentle. Supposedly, Jehan missed him. Maybe they followed Enjolras first, but they’d been willing to lie to him on Grantaire’s behalf, and—they have a book exchange—so. So.</p><p>“Yeah,” says Grantaire. Better to learn sooner rather than later where his fake-relationship-friends stand. Eponine’s shoved her way into the <em>still mine</em> category.</p><p>“Stop twitching, man,” Gav complains. <em>Settle</em>, Grantaire tells himself, and tries.</p>
<hr/><p>Three episodes later, Eponine says: “don’t freak out.” This is basically irony, because Grantaire’s heart kicks into overtime. “Enjolras is here. It’s important shit. Just stay.”</p><p>She disappears to the front door without a word, and Gavroche immediately says, “we’re following, right?”</p><p>Impulse control isn’t his strong suit. Before he knows it they’re creeping through Eponine’s house like a pair of catburglars. From the front hall, there are low voices.</p><p>“…needs time,” Eponine is saying firmly.</p><p>“But he’s safe,” and Enjolras’ voice shouldn’t send electricity shooting up his spine, through every inch of his skin.</p><p><em>Not your boyfriend</em>, he tries to remind himself, but his body’s not listening.</p><p>“He’s sober, rested and fed, and no longer in a storm drain,” Eponine confirms. Trust Eponine, to not mince a single word. If she’d tried to cover for him at all, Grantaire would’ve thrown up. Again.</p><p>“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes. “Thank you. Is—“</p><p>From what Grantaire’s heard, Gavroche is a habitual pickpocket and used to sneak out of class from under even his first grade teacher’s nose. There’s no reason for him to have knocked over a plastic cup and promptly disappeared.</p><p>When Enjolras sees him, he stiffens, which is his equivalent to startling. There’s a bag clutched in his hands, knuckles going white.</p><p>“Hey,” says Eponine. She moves aside in the doorway, a clear invitation that Grantaire can’t help but to take. Slinking out from behind the wall, he steps forward.</p><p>“I just wanted to bring over your meds,” Enjolras says. <em>Thanks</em> feels like a concession. So Grantaire doesn’t say it.</p><p>Numbly, Grantaire holds his hand out, and Enjolras passes the bag without letting their fingers brush. At a crash from the other room, both of them jump.</p><p>“Shit,” Eponine says, uncrossing her arms. “You good for a minute?” She asks Grantaire. “If it’s dire enough to make noise, I have to check on Gav.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he croaks, because Grantaire is a <em>liar</em>. <em>Come back immediately, </em>he psychically projects. Eponine, who is not a mind reader, leaves. “Pretty disappointed there isn’t a red pill, blue pill option.”</p><p>Enjolras gives a wry, miniscule smile to the wall. “Then you wouldn’t take both, and you’re supposed to.” So this is what they fall back on. For him, humor and nonsense. A prayer that if he acts like nothing’s happened, nothing will fall apart. For Enjolras: a gentler form of scolding than Grantaire could’ve hoped.</p><p><em>I love you</em>, Grantaire’s mind summons up, unbidden, and he wants to cry.</p><p>It’s so awkward. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to most people, much less his actually-too-good-to-be-true boyfriend. He tries to summon up his anger from the night before, his panic and rage, but all he pulls at is exhaustion. Loss. He scrubs a hand through his curls, absently cognizant of the stitches, and realizes—probably not for the first time—that he can’t punish Enjolras forever for his own shit decisions and feelings. All Enjolras did was be an obnoxiously good person, including sacrificing his time to Grantaire, and hell, Grantaire’s the one who wrenched on their shared shackles. Disrupted the balance.</p><p>“Are you—“ Enjolras begins.</p><p>“My conspiracy theory is that they’re sugar pills,” he half babbles. “Still get headaches, so clearly they’re not helping with the concussion.”</p><p>Enjolras sighs. “Some aren’t meant to. This is why I gave you the booklets,” and his face is pinched.</p><p>Shaking the bottles until they rattle, Grantaire groans, “these aren’t actual pain pills? Will nobody give me opiates legally? How many crowbars to the head must a man endure?”</p><p>“Why would you take pills you aren’t familiar with,” Enjolras says, despairing, and because his life is already ruined and always has been, Grantaire huffs,</p><p>“I’ve asked myself that after many a rager.”</p><p>Biting his lip, Enjolras says, “you know you have anxiety and depression.”</p><p>The <em>fuck</em>. “I’m <em>medicated?</em>” And then he finally reads the damn label. Well. “I’m medicated.”</p><p>Future Grantaire told a doctor. Future Grantaire—he probably talked to a <em>therapist</em>. He—he may have royally fucked up a lot of things, but he’d done the one thing Grantaire had always suspected he needed, deep down, and figured he’d never manage. Sure, Grantaire was a fuck up, but there were people with real issues and—no.</p><p>A doctor had given him a prescription. A medically licensed doctor had given him <em>two</em>. <em>Quack</em>, his brain immediately accuses.</p><p>“Oh,” he mumbles, still looking at the label. “That’s—unexpected.” Because what else can he say? “I’ll take them. Your fake boyfriend duties are over.” Jolting, Enjolras gets that miserable thousand-year-stare look, and to make it stop Grantaire says lowly, “Eponine still doesn’t know.” Drunken Grantaire’s pathetic rambling was not illuminating. “What, you gonna sue me? Do we have a nondisclosure agreement?”</p><p>Enjolras is already shaking his head, rapid. “It’s your right to tell who you choose.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Grantaire says, and longs for a glass of water, but—he’ll have to do it dry. After he’s swallowed the pills—practically a demonstration— he turns.</p><p>Against Grantaire’s logic, Enjolras is still there.</p><p>“Look,” Enjolras says carefully. “I—I’m not here to pressure you.” He swallows. His eyes are so red. Grantaire instantly wants to brain himself—how many times has Enjolras cried over his guilt with Grantaire now? The weeping martyr, for sure. “And even though I want to, I’m not here to talk about—however you ended up in a <em>storm drain</em>. Just, first, I have to absolve the others—our friends have no idea. Please don’t blame them for what I’ve done.” Our friends. <em>It doesn’t matter if they knew or not</em>, that dark portion of Grantaire’s mind whispers to him. <em>They’ll still leave when you do.</em></p><p>But—Eponine.</p><p>“Okay,” says Grantaire, feeling defeated. “Sure.”</p><p>In the face of this, Enjolras tugs at his coat, pulls inward. “I understand how disturbing and frightening it must be to have amnesia, in the first place, but then to also follow that by,” he grits his teeth, and despite the misty sheen to his eyes, looks <em>furious</em>. “By learning a stranger you don’t even like, a man in love with you, lied to you and posed as your boyfriend and potentially took. Advantage.” He’s breathing in, wobbly and rough. The sentence hangs, shredded and frayed. It takes Grantaire a moment to realize that Enjolras is too angry to finish. Hands clenching. Unclenching.</p><p>Enjolras is acting like he’s some shady stalker who kidnapped Grantaire in a back alley. Not a righteous, principled law student he’d known and crushed on before the amnesia. Known long enough—long enough for Enjolras to think he might—</p><p>“Uhm,” says Grantaire. It wouldn’t be right, to slide his own hand there, when it unclenches. To sneak in before those fine fingers next squeeze tight. “I—that doesn’t freak me out.”</p><p>The honesty mostly comes from his utter confusion. For a politician, Enjolras is excellent at smear campaigning, but apparently only against himself. That framing puts Enjolras in unflattering light, which is against the natural order of the universe. None of what he mentioned is even remotely close to freaking Grantaire out. Besides the— <em>a man in love with you</em>.</p><p>“It <em>should</em>,” Enjolras snaps.</p><p>“You didn’t drag me back from the hospital and—and <em>ravish</em> me,” Grantaire says, and almost begins to laugh. “Trust me, I’m sure, because I remember throwing myself at you and receiving a solid <em>no thanks</em>.”</p><p>Pinching the bridge of his nose, Enjolras says softly, “and would you have done that if you weren’t under the mistaken impression that we were in a real relationship?”</p><p>This—this is where it gets questionable.</p><p>“No,” Grantaire says, honest, and Enjolras practically crumples. Apparently under the weight of his own absurd guilt. “Whoa, okay, despite my general lack of control, I have had a successful career of not immediately jumping hot people. I mostly did it because I thought we were the kind of boyfriends that—you know.”</p><p>“You know,” Enjolras echoes. Then, with dry confusion, “hot people.” A phrase Grantaire never would’ve suspected he’d utter.</p><p>Grantaire has to look at the ceiling when he says, “us being together pretty much only made sense in the context of fucking.” He snorts, feeling something molten and sharp build in his chest. “Wow, I’m a psychic. No fucking. No relationship. Called it.”</p><p>Instead of yelling, which it looks like he’s inclined to do, Enjolras grits his teeth again—really, this must be the source of his fantastic jawline— and says, practically reminding himself: “I came to apologize.” Presumably tackling Grantaire and yanking his head back by his hair was not the original plan, but that’s what he looks like he—and Grantaire kind of <em>wants</em> him to—no. <em>No</em>.</p><p>“You don’t owe me anything,” Grantaire says slowly. “You told me as soon as you figured I wasn't gonna sell our story out to a gossip magazine. You owe me nothing." Just. "Maybe an apology for—for the last thing.”</p><p>“…What?”</p><p>Grantaire wants to hide. Wants to bury himself deep, drown in a crimson-wine wave. Suddenly, he can’t be inside the house with it. Stepping forward, he gestures at Enjolras’ shoulder with a <em>pushing</em> motion, and prays that he gets it. Enjolras backs up, through the front door, unturning. Grantaire shuts it behind them. Maybe he’s locked out. He doesn’t care. He’ll run barefoot through the neighborhood, if he has to, he just can’t stay still in there.</p><p>“Like—the love thing.” There. “You’ve said it fucking twice now and you need to stop.”</p><p>“I.” Enjolras’ throat works. He’s standing on Eponine’s welcome mat, which Gav and Grantaire painted last week, and it declares <em>place entry fee below!</em> He doesn’t even look out of place. Grantaire wants him there. Here, there. Everywhere. He could write a maniacal Dr. Seuss poem all about it. “I understand that the burden of unwanted feelings is uncomfortable,” Enjolras is saying. “I won’t mention it again.”</p><p>Grantaire closes his eyes. “If you don’t mean it don’t say it, that’s all I’m asking.”</p><p>“You’re taking issue with whether I mean it?” Enjolras frowns. “Not that I’m saying it?”</p><p>“Come on,” Grantaire says desperately, still refusing to look at him. “<em>Come on</em>. All you talk about is how much we wanted to choke each other, and not the fun choking each other out kind. You got smokescreened into being my fake boyfriend for social justice, for over a year, and still balk at the idea of sleeping platonically in the same <em>bed</em>. And I— when I thought we were boyfriends I waxed poetic about our boatloads of chemistry. Hugging you was the highlight of my day. I held your <em>hand</em>. I said,” he doesn’t want his voice to break, but it does. “I said holding hands felt <em>right</em>. So don’t act like you’re some villain tying me to a train track. I’m driving my own train off a cliff, here. I just don’t need you beckoning at me from the other side of the canyon.”</p><p>Enjolras is very quiet for a long moment. Then.</p><p>“You like me,” he blurts, suddenly, breathlessly. “Grantaire, you—you <em>like</em> me.”</p><p>“Uh—yeah,” says Grantaire. Defensiveness is rearing its ugly head. The ugly head with his own face on it. “No shit, Sherlock.”</p><p>“But you don’t remember—“ Always that.</p><p>“Is it so hard to believe I like you now?!” Grantaire bursts. “Why can’t me with amnesia—why can’t I like cooking or meetings or fucking holding your hand?”</p><p>“But you didn’t,” Enjolras states, still sounding unbalanced. “Before.” It goes unsaid: <em>what’s changed now?</em></p><p>“Yeah?” Grantaire hunches, hands in his hoodie pockets. “You sure about that?”</p><p>And Enjolras—he just <em>looks</em> at Grantaire. Like he’s finally done it. Like he’s sauntered over and shoved him to the ground and loomed, there, until he finally straddled him and shook him, made him starburst into a million points of light.</p><p>“Before, did you…” He can’t even finish.</p><p>“Not 100% confident,” Grantaire says bitterly, “but all evidence and my bitchy best friend have pretty much rubbed the fact in my face that, yep, I liked you then too. Isn’t that the worst? So, my beloved fake boyfriend, maybe you can reevaluate exactly how it feels to hear your guilt-ridden pity confession.”</p><p>Why can’t they speak without arguing?</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and his fists are unclenching, the whole of him stretched taut but unfurling. “That wasn’t pity. Or—or guilt. I care about you. And—and you really…?”</p><p>“You care about mandates and bills,” Grantaire snorts. “You care about fatcat capitalists squeezing the poor laborer. You care about people <em>thinking</em> we care about each other so the LGBT community doesn’t—“</p><p>“I’ll say I love you again,” Enjolras interrupts, suddenly deep. A tender threat. “I’ll say it as many times as needed.” He swallows. “I’ll make signs. I’ll write speeches and give declarations, I—“</p><p>The one thing Grantaire’s never expected, the morning after a rough night, or apparently a year and a half of rough nights, is for his fellow champion of poor decisions to roll over and say, <em>I still love you</em>. Much less: <em>let me prove it</em>. This wasn’t a test. Grantaire’s got no right to test him on this, nor does he want to. The results wouldn't be in his favor.</p><p>“You don’t know me,” Grantaire reminds him, throws Enjolras’ words from every night back at him, because he has to believe in those.</p><p>“No,” says Enjolras firmly, “you don’t know me, but you can. You can if you—“</p><p>“The fuck,” Grantaire says, and scrabbles behind himself for the door handle. “The <em>fuck</em>, Enjolras—“</p><p>And that’s the moment he makes eye contact with Jehan.</p><p>“Oh,” says Jehan, softly, fiddling with the strap of their bag. “I think I’ve come at a bad time.”</p>
<hr/><p>All five of them, crunched up on a couch watching Spongebob, is not how Grantaire would’ve thought this late morning would go. Azelma’s on her way to collect Gavroche, and judging by how long Enjolras was silent on the phone to indistinguishable chatter before saying, “can you pick me up from Eponine’s?” He’d bet money that Courfeyrac is going to swoop in. Grantaire tries to sink into the couch cushions between Eponine and Gavroche, and shut off every brain cell he didn’t manage to drown yesterday.</p><p>He puts his forehead in his hand, and does a drawn-out study of the shadows playing over the inside of his elbow. Gavroche leaves. Enjolras—Enjolras is practically <em>dragged</em>, an arm around his shoulder, with Courfeyrac finger waggling and waving and spewing well wishes in Grantaire’s direction.</p><p>
  <em>You don’t know me, but you can.</em>
</p><p>Maybe Grantaire should’ve let him explain the <em>how</em>.</p><p>“Alright,” says Eponine, “it’s well past time to clue us in.”</p><p>“I will,” Grantaire promises, except he still can’t quite look head-on at Jehan, and—and he needs to—</p><p>“I could go for a walk,” Jehan says. “Maybe we all could.”</p><p>So they do. Past neighborhood streets, little shops, all opening their doors for the day. Last night everything had been shut but the bars, hazily glowing neon in the rain, but this morning the world comes alive. The scent of freshly ground coffee spilling out of café doors. People haggling with shopkeeps on the sidewalk. It’s almost like, when Grantaire’s life falls apart, the rest of the world just keeps spinning. Wild. Unfair. Humbling.</p><p>“What did he say,” Eponine murmurs, blunt but softened by a fond flick of her eyes to his own, “to set you off last night?”  And that’s a question. The question to end all questions.</p><p>“Shit, Ep, with me sometimes all it takes is a <em>welcome to the bar</em>, or hell, even a <em>good morning</em>—“</p><p>“No.” She stares him down. “He said something. With you and Enjolras, it’s always that he said something.”</p><p>“Not even necessarily anything bad,” Jehan adds, and doesn’t that bode terribly. Grantaire swallows. Enjolras said it was his messed up tale to tell, too.</p><p>“You, uh,” how is he meant to explain this? “You know how Enjolras and I are that painfully in love couple our whole friend group mocks, even more than the likes of Cosette and Marius?” She raises an eyebrow. Grantaire wonders if he could locate his good old friend, vodka, still sitting at the edge of a storm drain. “To put it plainly: we’re not.”</p><p>“Nobody’s perfect,” Eponine begins, immediately, sounding well-worn, and Grantaire has to hold up one hand.</p><p>“No,” he says. “This isn’t your typical ‘he leaves his socks all over the house and I just can’t take it anymore.’ This is—this was a fairytale for the public.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” breathes Jehan, a hand flying to their mouth.</p><p>“<em>What</em>,” Eponine says flatly, “as far as I know you don’t have some cutesy couple Insta account,” and oh, man, he’s doing this all wrong.</p><p>“No, Ep, like—like a <em>con</em>,” Grantaire says, and her eyes get huge.</p><p>“Grantaire, what the <em>hell</em>.”</p><p>He takes in the first of many breaths he’ll need to explain.</p>
<hr/><p>“It’s amazing,” says Eponine.</p><p>“It’s terrible,” Grantaire says, from within the herbal circle of Jehan’s arms. He’s counting the fact that they’re still wrapped around him, thin yet firm, as a tentative promise to hear the rest of his sad sack tale out. Jehan knows, and they haven’t started making the awkward excuses of someone realizing their actual crew isn’t going to show up to this lame house party, just continued to hold him.</p><p>“Separately, you two have below-average levels of common sense, but put you together and it’s a world record,” she marvels.</p><p>“I just don’t,” Jehan’s frowning, and Grantaire knows this somehow, even though he can’t see it, “you two were <em>so close</em>.”</p><p>“He said he <em>loves me</em>,” Grantaire bursts, because of the entire situation, that’s the one part still painfully wedged in his brain. He’s on the edge of hysterical laughter. They’re sitting on a cluster of massive rocks in a park, and some poor strolling lady with her cute toddler and dog is veering to avoid coming close to the clear instability he’s presenting. “Can you fucking believe—“</p><p>“Yes,” both Jehan and Eponine say together. However, Jehan’s the only one who continues, “that’s the only thing that makes sense, to be honest, in all of this.”</p><p>Grantaire’s voice trembles when he says, “you guys realize your Enjolras impressions are just impressions, right, based off a gamut of lies—“</p><p>Jehan hugs him closer, impossibly gentle, and the real transformative growth Grantaire’s accomplished in the last few years is just turning into a human-sized squeak toy. He whimpers way too high, and then goes quiet and lax on one chartreuse, bergamot-scented shoulder.</p><p>“It’s possible,” says Jehan, “that I’ve noticed you avoiding my gaze all morning.”</p><p>“Eponine and I had a secular come-to-Jesus moment last night,” Grantaire mumbles.</p><p>Jehan shrugs just enough to seesaw Grantaire’s sightline. “References to Christianity aside, do you need to have one of those with me? That you need one with Enjolras is—undeniable.”</p><p>None of Grantaire’s acquaintanceships or relationships have required discussing this <em>aloud</em>. Or even merited enough mutual emotion for this at all. He feels like a five year old on a playground—<em>do you like me? Do you wanna play rocketship?</em> And who’d—</p><p>Right beside his ear, Jehan’s got on a necklace with little tiny skulls, and fossils, and glittery quartz. They’ve gotten teary-eyed over a video biography of Maya Angelou. It is possible they’re not going to sneer at Grantaire over the crime of—expressing an emotion.</p><p>“Now that you know that Enjolras and I aren’t together,” he mutters, feeling something in his chest seize up, “if you want to, um…”</p><p>“Eat our weight in ice cream and watch Mystery Science Theater 3000?”</p><p>Eponine, who is not patient enough for this, says, “he’s asking if you still want to be his friend.”</p><p>“Oh,” hums Jehan, thoughtfully, and then: “Grantaire, what the actual fuck.”</p>
<hr/><p>Twenty minutes later, Bossuet and Musichetta have arrived to sit on their own obnoxiously large rocks in the cluster, and Joly is videocalling from whatever miniature cot they grace medical students with during twelve hour shifts.</p><p>“Grantaire murdered a man,” Eponine greets them, and all Bossuet says is:</p><p>“Eponine, we have a shovel at our apartment! Why didn’t you give us this information earlier?”</p><p>“I don’t know much about autopsies yet,” Joly pipes up from Musichetta’s palm, and Grantaire is close enough to hear Jehan’s mumbled <em>I do</em>, “but I’ll try my medical best to fool the authorities!”</p><p>“Guessing I’m here for moral support, and to fulfill my lifelong dream of being an accessory to a crime,” Musichetta drawls, and then leans over and kisses Grantaire on the cheek. “Hey, R.”</p><p>“Is anyone going to ask <em>why</em>?” he says, but he’s smiling, and he can’t stop, and shit. Shit.</p><p>“We assumed the cause was just,” Bossuet smiles. And because the words <em>just </em>and <em>cause</em> are basically direct word associations for all of them now: “where’s your boyfriend?”</p><p>Before Grantaire can even flinch, Jehan says, “halfway to the border. We’ll never see him again, for our own protection.”</p><p>“Turn me, turn me,” Joly demands bouncily, and Bossuet obligingly angles the screen towards Grantaire, “okay, we gotta get our story to the FBI straight. We’ve been watching TV all night.”</p><p>“You <em>have</em> an alibi,” Grantaire can’t help but laugh. “A real one.”</p><p>“Okay,” Joly admits, wiggling his eyebrows, “but this’ll cover you too, and they won’t figure that out for twenty years, and by then, we’ll all be sweet old innocent grandparents, out holding hands in our rocking chairs.”</p><p>“In twenty years we won’t even be old enough to qualify for Medicare,” Grantaire reminds him, and barely avoids his brain adding, <em>not like that program covers as much as it should anyway.</em> Enjolras is only present here in the ache of Grantaire’s heart, or some other… prosaic metaphor Jehan could improve on.</p><p>“Will you paint my hypothetical rocking chair?” Bossuet says, which is not conceding the point, but—</p><p>“Sure,” Grantaire chuckles. Sure.</p><p>“It’s the future,” says Joly, “so my rocking chair’s going to be <em>robots.</em>”</p><p>This is beyond ride-or-die. This is ride-or-die-and-also-the-night-before-the-apocalypse-we’ll-be-playing-made-up-board-games-and-drinking-top-shelf-liquor.</p><p><em>They’re your friends too</em>, Enjolras had said, and—in embarrassment and self-rage he couldn’t dare to believe him.</p><p>Bossuet mashes Grantaire’s face into his puffer coat when they hug, and Musichetta glides over to perch beside Eponine. Jehan questions, “do you know how to braid long hair?” Nobody mentions Enjolras again. Nobody rightfully demands Grantaire grovel for what he did last night. Nobody asks Grantaire to be something he’s not, whether that something is good or bad.</p><p>He <em>wants</em> to be something he’s never before been, though. Something <em>real</em>— not pure or faultless, no, but <em>beloved</em>. Better. And maybe—it’s a place Grantaire can deserve to be.</p>
<hr/><p>It is only later, when Ep’s dropping him off at Jehan’s—<em>you sure?</em>—<em>Ep, I don’t know how I was ever scared of Jehan, I spent an hour today braiding pinecone accents into their hair—</em>that Eponine sits, watching Grantaire sip chamomile, and lands the final revelation for the day.</p><p>“Do you <em>want</em> to remember?”</p><p><em>Tick tick tick</em>, goes Jehan’s clock.</p><p>“No,” Grantaire realizes, with both relief and dawning shame. “I don’t.”</p><p>Grantaire doesn’t remember what happened, but—he almost can’t bear to. What’s behind that curtain—a whole musical of mockery, with Grantaire positioned as the fool? The comedic relief? When he’s an amnesiac nobody’s allowed to expect things out of him, or hold him accountable, and in the early days it was a weird comfort to think that Enjolras was responsible enough to keep him close in the meantime, even on the cusp of a break-up. Being an amnesiac is like being suspended on the edge of a cliff—except people keep crossing their fingers that he’ll fall, keep cheering him on, clapping for a strong breeze.</p><p>Eponine’s quiet for a long moment at that, a storm in her eyes. Like maybe she wants to grab Grantaire by the ear and march him to the shower and shove his head in an ice-cold stream.</p><p>“You don’t even know what happened, Grantaire. You can’t know whether it’s bad or good.”</p><p>“Let’s be realists here. It’s me,” he laughs, watery, “c’mon, Ep, it’s me, I’m a mess. And now I don’t even know how <em>much</em> of one. Who knows what I’ve done. Did I even vote last election? Hell, maybe I voted for—“</p><p>“You didn’t,” Eponine says firmly, shuddering. “Look, we all stood in line at the polls, and I remember, because you and Enjolras had to pry yourselves apart to do your civic duty.”</p><p><em>Pry yourselves apart.</em> Like Enjolras was participating in… whatever had been happening.</p><p>“See, that?” Grantaire says, bitter. “Even something as small as that could’ve been—an annoying experience for him.”</p><p>“I don’t think cuddling is a hardship,” says Eponine, “pretty sure I’ve heard Enjolras extol its virtues,” so Grantaire has to switch tracks.</p><p>“Does last night even rank among the top ten of my fuckups?”</p><p>“R,” she says, flat. “Yes. Last night was awful.” He winces. He’s broken a bone before while drunk, disappeared off into the hazy, smoky oblivion of an Uber’s backseat with a stranger and—and somehow this scared her more.</p><p>“How much shit do you think Enjolras has dealt with over the last few years? Plenty, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, well, can’t deny that,” Eponine shrugs, and Grantaire knows, he <em>knew</em>—“but he also fell in love with you, and chose you at every opportunity, and Enjolras isn’t the type to do either of those lightly. Last night wasn’t awful because you got wasted. You’ve never.” She bites her lip. “You’ve never doubted us aloud, outright, like that before.”</p><p>It goes unsaid, that she suspects he’s doubted them somewhere in his rotten heart.</p><p>“You have to have a little faith,” Jehan adds, settling their saucer on their knees. “Maybe not in the whole world. But in you and Enjolras.”</p><p>“How am I supposed to have faith in <em>me</em>? From the way he tells it, I was this—this <em>asshole</em> who existed to antagonize him, and I can tell I was pathetic and ugly in love, so—<em>how</em>?”</p><p>Honestly, he’s not even expecting an answer, but Eponine just shakes her head and—and gives him one. A reason for faith.</p><p>“Easy.” Eponine nods. “When it’s about the right shit. Grantaire, you’ve proven that given the opportunity and about a week’s worth of time, you’d immediately fall in love with Enjolras again.”</p><p>“Hours,” Grantaire says automatically, before he can stop himself, and Eponine just drops her head in her hands and groans. “I—shit, Eponine, you’re acting like that’s some kind of accomplishment. Have you heard him? Have you seen him talk about homelessness or campaign financing or even argue like—his favorite kind of fucking cookie? How am I supposed to <em>not</em>?”</p><p>“R, most people salivate over Enjolras just long enough for him to open his mouth and pour out long, painfully awkward political rants. I mean, he’s better now, but him in college? Fucking terrifying. Plenty of people who stayed past that first visual did so while buying a boatload of earplugs on Amazon.”</p><p>“Ugh, Amazon,” Grantaire says, because he’s only recently discovered the website has become a behemoth, “so convenient and awesome. So evil.”</p><p>“See, that,” Eponine points her stirring spoon at him, “<em>that</em> is the fucking difference.”</p><p>“…online shopping?”</p><p>“Grantaire, Enjolras opens his mouth to rant at you and you look like a Da Vinci just leaned out of frame and started feeling you up. You’re all pussyfooting like—oh <em>shit </em>I can’t touch the <em>art</em> but this is <em>incredible </em>and I hope it continues for the rest of my natural life—“</p><p>“Heeey,” complains Grantaire, sliding down in his chair. Stuffing down a red-faced grin despite himself, because Eponine is his targeted brand of humor. “Mercy, mercy. Isn’t the fact that I feel this way bad enough without you reminding me how ridiculous I am? Like—<em>how. </em>How am I this bad? Where is my intervention? What am I supposed to <em>do</em>?”</p><p>“Mm,” Jehan hums around the lip of their cup, “it’s love. Worth striving for, you know? Worth embarrassment and shameful memories and apologies and the painful learning curve of growing to be a better person.”</p><p>Grantaire looks at the both of them, and despite yesterday with Eponine, hell, despite this <em>morning </em>with Jehan, he says to them, about them, “yeah, it is.” Hundred-foot tall trees envy his levels of sap.</p><p>“Aww,” says Jehan, while Eponine scrunches her mouth up in a way that looks like she’s grappling a smile into submission. “Aww, sweetpea, that was almost optimism.”</p><p>“I’m a changed man,” Grantaire mumbles. “Well. In some stuff.”</p><p>Clearly only in a limited assortment of things, because Jehan says, “have you seen <em>The Force Awakens</em> yet?” Ahh, Star Wars. Even if this entire amnesiac episode is only a fever dream, at least he can hallucinate a reboot to the famed series.</p><p>“Nope,” says Grantaire, and he hasn’t, but once they settle down—he recognizes the actress. Predicts the plot in a way that’s too good for even his filmography skills.</p><p>Normally, he wouldn’t say it aloud, because—it’s not a <em>memory</em>, per se, or if it is it’s a shoddy one. But he—it’s just a movie. He tells himself that it’s just a movie. It’s okay if he’s wrong.</p><p>“I could’ve sworn,” he says, hesitant, “there was, like, another girl? And… everybody died?” Which is bullshit. People dying for a good cause is better than for nothing, but—bullshit. Nobody should have to die to make the world a better place. There should be another way; the demise of a corrupt empire without tragic sacrifice.</p><p>“That’s Rogue One,” Jehan shrugs, and leans on his shoulder, “we could watch it next? Again?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Grantaire says, something in him loosening. “Again.”</p>
<hr/><p>When Jehan flicks off the light and snuggles beneath their paisley sheets, Grantaire has summoned up enough strength to look at his texts for the first time since last night.</p><p>There’s a flood. A battered collection of <em>where are you?</em> And <em>R??</em> from various members of the ABC. He can’t bear to look at Enjolras’, just lets it linger, but he’s still feeling in a self-punishing mood, so he scrolls to CoUrfeyROCK &lt;3 XD.</p><p>He’s had no concept of time since last night, seconds and hours sloshing together, but at some point Courf has bombarded him:</p><p>
  <em>from what little I’ve wrung out!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it seems our capitaine came to apologize for being intense</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and then in his typical style… intensified</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i kno it’s weird to suddenly be in a serious rl but like</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Enj is the best. obv i’m v biased but. promise!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>hope you’re willing to give him a chance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>if not, that is also fair, and i’ll see u at meetings&amp;around</em>
</p><p>
  <em>just like</em>
</p><p>
  <em>you’ve seen how passionate he gets about people he’s never even met</em>
</p><p>
  <em>so when it’s someone he cares for!! it gets real</em>
</p><p>
  <em>if u ever need space me n Ferre are always happy to kidnap him for u &gt;:3</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[golden retriever puppy wriggling while being picked up gif]</em>
</p><p>And what is essentially a follow-up message from Combeferre that just says:</p><p>
  <em>I apologize for the meddling. We just want both of you happy. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.</em>
</p><p>Like they needed to convince Grantaire—<em>Grantaire</em>—that Enjolras was worth his time.</p><p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre are Enjolras’, more than they could belong to anyone else, and still they—they act like they didn’t <em>know</em>.</p><p>Deep down, in that shameful and honest part of himself he normally plies with Jack Daniels, he can admit they probably didn’t. Nobody did, except for him and Enjolras, and if he broke up with Enjolras… everyone would still be there. They hauled him out of the street. They appeared today to practically pool-noodle-thwack him with affection. He can summon up a little faith.</p><p>Scrolling to Enjolras’ name, looking past the splatter of frantic messages, he can’t stop himself from seeing a <em>I’m sorry. </em>He won’t read anything else.</p><p><em>Can</em>, he starts to type, and it wants to autocorrect, his damn phone knows more about his life than the processing power of his brain. <em>Can’t</em>, it suggests, and then, <em>sleep</em>.</p><p>He deletes it all.</p><p>
  <em>come to Jehan’s tomorrow so we can talk?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everything okay? Anything I should bring?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>just want to talk</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll be there.</em>
</p><p>He rolls over, and curls up beneath the covers to Jehan’s even breathing, and thinks, <em>you can love someone and be cruel to them.</em> Grantaire doesn’t want to be cruel. Loving someone and not letting it change you for the better isn’t loving at all.</p>
<hr/><p>Grantaire gets up. He takes his medication. Not looking up from their poetry book, Jehan strokes their sleep-mussed braid and says, “muffins are on the counter for you.”</p><p>“Um,” says Grantaire, “I think I’m gonna go on a run?”</p><p>That gets Jehan to look up. “Oh. Will you text me the park you choose?”</p><p>“Whichever I used to go to the most?”</p><p>Jehan tells him the one. Because Jehan apparently knows random shit about Grantaire’s life, because they are Grantaire’s actual friend. So Grantaire tugs on his running shoes, and halfheartedly stretches his calves, and takes off.</p><p>He tries not to think about the path too deeply. Grantaire’s not a man with a plan. Just runs till his lungs burn and the wind no longer feels bitingly chill, slowing at the top of a sloping hill and looks back over what he’s traveled. He couldn’t tell you where he is. Or where he’s going. But—Grantaire’s not lost. He doesn’t think that’s an accident.</p><p>When he’s running back, a bakery catches his eye, has him winding down. An older gentleman in an apron jingles open the door to let a young mother and her son out, beams down.</p><p>“Mr. Myriel,” he says, slowing to a full stop. “Hi.”</p><p>And <em>fuck</em>, because that’s all Grantaire’s got. A name, and a warm feeling.</p><p>“Good morning, Grantaire. It’s been too long.”</p><p>Grantaire tugs out an earbud, still buzzing with a playlist he can already hum along to on the first try. Electric violin and west coast swing beats, R&amp;B and rap and house EDM. Some musical he suspects he introduced Enjolras to because it's <em>so </em><em>him</em>, one that he came to appreciate too by sheer exposure.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, “I’ve been—um. Busy.” And a few years displaced.</p><p>“I hope you’re healing from your accident.”</p><p>“It’s a process,” admits Grantaire, “but I am.” It’s not a lie. Despite the fact that huge portions of this life were a lie, he’s been doing it less and less since—landing here. In the future.</p><p>“That’s good to hear.” Myriel’s still leaning against the door, which is covered in rainbow drawings, clearly from kids with those too-fat markers in small clutching fists, nothing staying in the lines. In the morning sun it glows like a stained glass window, all lit up. “Don’t let me keep you. Why you’re here is clear.” With a wrinkled hand, he gestures inside.</p><p>“Um,” Grantaire says, thrown, “who am I to say no?” The question probably sounds rhetorical to Myriel, but it’s really not. Still, he goes forth into the smell of toasted chocolate and flaky bread. That impossible warmth.</p><p>And there, at the gleaming case, stands Enjolras.</p><p>Absorbed in the display of cakes and croissants, he doesn’t look up, just murmurs, “can I see your tea leaf selection? He can’t have caffeine and you know he likes to try new things anyway—“</p><p>Eyes soft but huge, he cuts off.</p><p>“Surprise,” says Grantaire, half to himself. He also tells himself not to do little jazz hands. Fails. Of all of the shops, all of the streets. Of course he picked this one. His subconscious and conscious mind are united in their mission to follow Enjolras wherever he might go, for all time.</p><p>“I’m glad to see this particular tradition hasn’t succumbed to New Year’s resolutions,” Myriel chuckles, ambling to behind the counter. “You two had me worried.”</p><p>Grantaire could bluster, could say <em>Mr. Myriel, avoiding your baked goods would be a sin,</em> and pass them off. He doesn’t.</p><p>For his part, Enjolras just says, “we can’t stay away,” and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. Lips off one red glove so he can pull out a twenty, and also so he can send Grantaire’s heart pulsing. “What would you like?”</p><p>Grantaire knows what he likes.</p><p>“Made with love,” says Myriel, passing over a tray of two steaming reusable mugs and one paper cup, a crinkled bag. From him, it doesn’t sound scripted. “Hope to see you both again soon.” He winks. “Threw in an extra garlic loaf for you, R.”</p><p>While Enjolras balances everything in his arms, Grantaire nods, <em>thanks</em>, and digs through his pockets awkwardly for change to tuck into Myriel’s tip jar and the UNICEF collection. Finds none. Remembers, flinching, that it’s because he hurled it all onto Enjolras’ floor, and is left staring, empty-handed.</p><p>“Hey,” says Enjolras, softly. “I’ve got it. Hold this?”</p><p>He drinks from one of the reusable mugs, and even if it wasn’t sparking some vague recollection of a debate in a pottery stall, he’d know it’s his. He looks around the little bakery, at letters and awards and a mural on the wall that—oh. The <em>R</em> in the corner is less stylized than what he’s used, but somehow more distinct.</p><p><em>This place is ours too, </em>Grantaire thinks. He wonders how many places there are. He wants to know.</p><p>Before he can think on it too long, they’re back out on the street, bracing in the cold.</p><p>“Back to Jehan’s?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s surprised he isn’t halfway there already, sprinting off with drinks perfectly undisturbed. Instead, Enjolras doesn’t move, and suddenly he’s saying, “you knew where to find me.”</p><p>“Yeah,” agrees Grantaire, because… apparently he did. “Hey, um.”</p><p>He sets the bag on the nearby tabletop, umbrella closed for the season. He’s still in his running gear, and his legs are cold, and he’d tried to think about what to say before deciding he had no idea. That he’d have to talk from the heart. Unfortunately, Grantaire’s heart is a distracted bastard.</p><p>“Not that I’m saying this is a substitute for actual communication or, whatever,” he grits out, “but, um, can we…” He holds out one arm, like—like they’re going to <em>bro it out.</em> Slaps on the back. Side hug. Grantaire instantly hates himself, more than usual.</p><p>But all Enjolras says is, abruptly, “yes,” and because he is brave and boundless, tucks both arms around Grantaire. Squeezes, when Grantaire does the same. He smells like coffee and clean cotton and his stupid coat is smooth and cool against Grantaire’s face.</p><p>And then, unfortunately, Grantaire’s going to have to do this… communication business.</p><p>“I’m remembering,” is the first thing he gets out. He pulls back. Enjolras’ fingers are tracing circles on his elbows. “Not much. But. I think it’s actually been happening for a little while, and I didn’t—I wasn’t sure.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Enjolras, straightening, completely magnetic in his fury, “do you remember the man who assaulted you? The police—they fucking dragged their feet on pursuing it, try to contain your surprise, and—“</p><p>“Uh,” Grantaire winces. “Wish I could help, I do. But I don’t remember the rally.”</p><p>Enjolras dims. “Oh. So.” And then he goes quiet. Grantaire picks up their supplies, and lifts them meaningfully in Enjolras’ direction, and they start walking. Both of them. Slow. Dead leaves crunching, people in colorful layers passing them by.</p><p>“I don’t remember that much,” Grantaire admits, finally. “Not much about us. Dumb stuff, mostly. Movies. Places I’ve been.”</p><p>“Mm.” Enjolras is looking down. His lash density should be—fucking <em>studied</em> to eliminate male pattern baldness. They’re not fair. “Do you remember the night before the rally?”</p><p>Grantaire swallows. “You’re gonna have to clarify—hint, like, location and context. Miss Scarlet with the revolver in the conservatory. My memory’s a thousand piece puzzle that went through a shredder.”</p><p>Enjolras swallows. “I said we mostly kissed in public. That was the one time we… in private.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Grantaire manages. “With the texts I kind of figured we’d—fought.”</p><p>“No,” Enjolras disagrees, quietly, “at least, I don’t think that’s what that was,” and doesn’t elaborate. The realization is hitting, now, that it’s because he can’t. Can’t guess at the truth, because he always embodies it. He can’t, because Enjolras doesn’t know either.</p><p>Face burning, Grantaire has to admit it. “I have something from that night. It’s just murky. And it feels—almost invasive.” Enjolras blanches, and Grantaire remembers his tendency to accept fault, responsibility, so he quickly follows with, “it just doesn’t feel like <em>me</em>, yet.” It feels like an imposter. Like he’s a changeling.</p><p>Enjolras blinks. “It’s your memory.”</p><p>Sure, he can remember the slow, slick warmth of Enjolras’ mouth on his own, but without a thousand other memories to build up to it, it sits elevated on a cloud miles above him. A dream. Hell, if he did have those memories, that stairwell of moments, would it make sense even then?</p><p>But if it’s always like that—if Enjolras, full-speed ahead, leader of revolution, tires of waiting—</p><p>“What if I don’t remember everything?” Grantaire asks. “If he’s gone, forever?”</p><p>Enjolras stares at him. “You keep talking about this like your future self is a completely different person.”</p><p>“I wasn’t alone in that,” Grantaire reminds him, “you did, too,” and Enjolras bites his lip.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“A few years is a long time,” Grantaire says, and tries to shrug carelessly. He’s not sure he quite manages it. “And he seems—for all his fuckups, he was still a better person than me. I don’t know if I can do that again.”</p><p>Enjolras smiles, a little tentative. “I think you can become whoever you want.” And of course he does. Of course Enjolras, champion of all, faithfully believes even Grantaire can be his best self. He probably believes in the self-actualization of—of pigeons, and the dust bunnies under his couch. And Grantaire fucking loves him. “But if you don’t,” Enjolras continues, “if you really think you’re that changed. If you insist you’re a completely different person, then— I like you too.”</p><p>Oh. Oh god.</p><p>“That is… polyamory to a different level,” says Grantaire, faintly. Except. “But I—I’m not him.” He’s— incomplete. All those wild strokes of layering paint that seem formless and sloppy, without the final touches it takes from a master to pull together.</p><p>“You’re still a person,” Enjolras says, firm. “A person I care about. Someone who’s made my last few weeks bearable even while I basically… grieved my best friend.”</p><p>Grantaire blinks. “I know babysitting me distracted you from time with Combeferre and Courfey—“</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, almost impatient, and—oh. He’s getting the sudden flash of feeling that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are Enjolras’ much taller but significantly less metal version of Eponine and Jehan. There’s that bone-deep <em>mine</em>, that twin soul, and if you asked he’d say they’re best friends, of course, but the person he’s spent the most time with is actually—</p><p>“I was your best friend,” Grantaire realizes, feeling stricken and inexplicably tender. The tips of Enjolras’ ears go pink beneath his curls.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, with no hesitation. “Memories or no, I hope you at least give us a chance. Either platonically or romantically. With, um—the either-or being inclusive should you choose to try the romantic angle, of course, platonic love is an essential component of…”</p><p>He trails off when Grantaire, unable to stop himself, grabs his hand. The drinks practically spilling, his breath puffing out white between them.</p><p><em>Either-or</em> logic statements are now sending Grantaire to dizzying heights of joy. Life as Future Grantaire will never stop being a fucking <em>trip</em>. Except—this isn’t Future Grantaire’s life. This is his life, full stop.</p><p>“In case you haven’t noticed,” says Grantaire, “when I like something, I take it to extremes.” Historically the things Grantaire’s liked are chemical depressants, late nights, hating the state of the world, and long naps. More recently: Enjolras, their codependent friends, <em>Enjolras</em>, arguing about the state of the world, and extended hugs.</p><p>Enjolras gives that miniature smile. For the first time, Grantaire can look it head-on. “I’ve noticed. It’s a trait we share.” They <em>share traits</em> that aren’t shouting volume. But then that smile is wobbling, a little, and then Enjolras is saying, serious and careful, “I want to do this. But if you regain your memories and you decide our shared history has changed your mind, then—“</p><p>“Hey,” Grantaire breaks in, feeling—unbearably gentle. Grantaire doesn’t do glasswork or small, intricate sculpture for a reason—paintings can be dropped. Paintings can be worked over even after they’re dry. Telling Enjolras <em>I’m sure</em> feels like the only truth he knows, but it’s not fair to say. “I think me with some higher level of brain functioning will like you, too. And from now on I’m going to work my hardest to—remember.” He’s going to accept the flashes he gets as reality, embrace the feelings and the fear that sometimes comes with them. To be open to the possibility that he could be better. That he may already be, just a little bit.</p><p>“I know,” says Enjolras, simply, “and I’ll be here.”</p><p>For this, Grantaire will believe.</p>
<hr/><p>Recovering memories isn’t all sunny mornings with loaves of bread, delivering lukewarm tea to a knowing Jehan. Sometimes it’s staring helplessly at a half-finished painting. Sometimes it’s walking into a Mediterranean restaurant for Bossuet’s birthday and cringing at Enjolras across the table, who furrows his brow before slowly going redder and redder, because…he’s pretty sure last visit they hooked their ankles together under here, and fed each other hummus, and like, he might’ve licked honey from the baklava off Enjolras’ wrist, and <em>wow they were awful at fake dating</em>. Sometimes it’s calling Eponine, hands shaking, to say <em>can I punch your dad, are you safe</em>, until she reassures him that it’s already been taken care of. One memorable moment, it’s blinking at Bahorel across coffee and realizing, “shit, you let me give you a drunken <em>tattoo</em>,” trying to recall its design with increasing absurdity until Feuilly’s laughing himself under the counter. The good.</p><p>The bad. Sometimes it’s passing a bar in the light of day, holding tight onto Enjolras’ arm, and knowing he’s thrown up in its grungy bathroom stall. That he’s passed out there. Started a fight. Remembering, even sitting in their still unreasonable apartment, surrounded by their books, fingers laced together, that Enjolras had once yelled <em>what do you even do, Grantaire, besides drink and sleep and mock, what right do you have to dismiss anyone or have an opinion here</em>—knowing that today, he’s still not completely sure of the answer.</p><p>He could still sit silently on it. Let it fester. Instead, he says to himself, <em>what do I do? Today, I paint. Refill my meds. Drop by on Joly’s break with a snack. Massage a rough day out of Enjolras’ shoulders.</em></p><p>He does all of these things, and at the end of them, he says, “is there anything else I can do?”</p><p>“You can tell me what you remembered,” Enjolras says, and so Grantaire does. “I’m sorry,” Enjolras murmurs, and it’s not necessarily what Grantaire wanted, but it’s important. “I’ll be better.”</p><p>“Me too,” Grantaire promises, “me too. Come to bed.”</p><p>And—well, he’s recovering a lot of memories, so he can’t mind much that they haven’t made any particularly titillating ones there yet.</p><p>“The pillow. Is fluffed,” Grantaire muffles into his own. “It’s morphed into a white flag of surrender. Have mercy.”</p><p>“I’m a restless sleeper,” Enjolras confesses, and yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Every night he’s probably trying to sleepmarch on the capital.</p><p>“Let me teach you,” Grantaire says, spooning him. It goes unsaid, but sleep comes easier to both of them, like this.</p>
<hr/><p>It happens after a meeting, because that’s how it was always going to happen.</p><p>Cosette and Marius spend as much time flirting as they do loading supplies for the weekend into Enjolras’ trunk, so it’s easy to lean against the passenger door and continue whatever debate they’d started up inside.</p><p>They’re laughing, he’s riling in a way that’s fond, throwing out quotes from Enjolras’ past speeches, talking points from the last time the ABC got fiery about campaign financing. He doesn’t remember how it comes up, couldn’t pinpoint why he tucks a curl behind Enjolras ear and laughs, “you dork, I can’t believe I asked you out.”</p><p>Enjolras tugs his beanie down over Grantaire’s eyes and snorts, “I asked <em>you</em> out.”</p><p>“No, Apollo, credit where credit’s due! You can’t fool me any longer. You missed the amnesia window. Prime opportunity. Gone.”</p><p>“What part of me confessing love and asking you to give us a chance translates to you asking me out?”</p><p>“The part where I beat you to it by like a year and half?” He tugs his beanie back up, grins, leans forward to peer towards the back of the car, where Marius and Cosette are getting distracted the romantic allure of signage and flyers. “If I recall, that eventually led to us dating for real. Pish posh to, like, the months between. Cosette, back me up here. Or you know what, I don’t need you to, let me pull up the esteemed, award-winning <em>National Geographic</em>—“</p><p>“<em>Grantaire</em>.”</p><p>He’s typing <em>famous gay 2015</em> into the searchbar, practically buzzing with the joy of both winning the argument and also <em>teasing potential, yes</em>, when Enjolras hand grabs his screen. Accidentally backs it out to his now gooier and even more embarrassing background photo of the both of them. “Yo, no fair,” Enjolras tucks it into his coat pocket, steps forward, “you realize I’m<em>mmm</em>.” Grantaire sways, slides with the incoming descent of Enjolras’ body. Enjolras takes one hand, pins it against the window, lacing their fingers together. The other he leaves alone, if only because Grantaire immediately takes the opportunity to bury it into Enjolras’ curls and tug.</p><p>“Uhh?” Grantaire boggles, when they resurface. “Kissing is. Not a technique I recommend to win more official arguments if you’re lacking talking points, but hell, it works for me.“</p><p>“You asked me out,” Enjolras says.</p><p>Grantaire’s pinned to the side of a car, about twenty feet away from the cheery, bright windows of the Corinthe. He’s pretty sure any remaining mutual friends could see this display, if they wanted. None of this is new or startling information, even for them.</p><p>“…yeah?” says Grantaire. “You were there? Like, undeniably photographed at the scene?”</p><p>“At the Pride rally,” Enjolras says. “With the flag. On one knee.”</p><p>“Only I get bonus points for basic memories, you’re supposed to have this on lock.”</p><p>“And you’ve always liked me,” Enjolras continues, who is normally not a fan of reiterating obvious information. Someone who is finally leans out from the trunk, says sheepishly,</p><p>“Did you call for us?” Grantaire and Enjolras were totally not the only ones spontaneously kissing.</p><p>“You’re good,” Grantaire tells Marius, probably too breathlessly. Not like they can judge. Cosette pops her lovely face out, slams down the trunk.</p><p>“All finished! Have a nice night.”</p><p>The lovebirds run off into the cool dark, and Grantaire leans back, peers up at where Enjolras is refusing to look away.</p><p>“C’mon,” he says. “It’s cold. We’re not all burning with the righteous fury of a thousand suns.” They pile in, but Enjolras doesn’t start the car. Grantaire finds the issue. Both the issues. “Seatbelt.” He clicks Enjolras’, then his. The car is still not starting.</p><p>“Afterwards,” Enjolras says, “I told you…“ And doesn’t finish.</p><p>“I know,” Grantaire says softly, “you told me that you understood it was a prank, and you’d thought we were past all that, and there were going to be consequences I’d never thought of in the public sphere. People that were going to be hurt because of a joke, that misunderstanding. You asked if I could do something for you. Just for a little while. And I said <em>anything</em>, because I panicked. Thus began—well, thus began the most ridiculous year and a half of our lives.” He can feel his heart stutter. “Are you still thinking about that? Like—we’re together now. For real. We know better how not to hurt each other.”</p><p>Enjolras turns the key in the ignition, looking dazed, and says, “but I didn’t realize. That you meant it.”</p><p>His feet thump down from the dashboard. “You <em>know</em> I liked you then!”</p><p>“I—there’s still a difference between knowing and actually putting the pieces together—“</p><p>“You’re a <em>lawyer</em>,” Grantaire protests. “It’s literally your <em>job</em>.”</p><p>“I’m a law student,” Enjolras mutters. “Clearly I’ve got a ways to go.”</p><p>“Holy <em>shit</em>.” Enjolras pulls jerkily out of the parking spot. People might be screaming. Paper is rocksliding around in the backseat. Grantaire couldn’t tell either way.</p><p>“I’m sure there’s things you haven’t pieced together,” Enjolras grumbles.</p><p>“I’m not a lawye—a <em>law student</em>! Besides, I noticed most stuff or have since, because you are <em>not subtle.</em>”</p><p>Enjolras gives him an exasperated look, but seems to consider this. “Remember our kiss in the hospital?”</p><p><em>Yeah</em>, Grantaire definitely remembers that. “You mean our first one with tongue?”</p><p>“You <em>asked</em> me to,” Enjolras says, like an explanation or confession, and there’s a desperation in it. “And I didn’t know that you—had amnesia.”</p><p>Thank God Enjolras is driving. “Fuck, you thought I was reciprocating.”</p><p>Enjolras taps the wheel, smile a little wry. “I did.”</p><p>“And then it was the reverse of a frog prince kiss, where you pulled back and found out I’d magically regressed to being an <em>asshole</em>.”</p><p>Enjolras makes a face that’s falls somewhere between <em>this television politician is either ignorant or perjuring themself </em>and <em>Courfeyrac, that table isn’t good at bearing your weight during this speech, please get down, please. </em>Yes, Grantaire categorizes them. No, it’s not weird.</p><p>“You were fine,” he finally says. “Different than I was expecting, but—that’s because I had some preconceived notions about who you were. I still liked you.” Grantaire consciously—<em>consciously</em> knew this. The more Enjolras says it, the clearer it becomes. Like remembering a dream. “But back on topic— you <em>liked me and asked me out</em>. So all this time—“</p><p>“Yeah,” says Grantaire.</p><p>“Back then—“</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” says Grantaire. This is not a difficult or even debatable subject. “And I say this with what is probably a full head of memories. It’s chill. Worth it. Troy launched a thousand ships, I fake cuddled you for a few months, it’s all sacrificial. That was a wild time, but the fake dating eventually got you to like me, didn’t it?”</p><p>“Um,” says Enjolras. “No?”</p><p>Enjolras could be blowing through a hundred stop signs. They could be driving on the moon. Enjolras could slam a button on the console and turn this into the Batmobile and Grantaire wouldn’t know. He wants to say, <em>so you still don’t like me?</em> but that’s stupid, so the only option is—</p><p>“You <em>liked me already</em>?”</p><p>Helplessly, Enjolras lifts his shoulders. His hands are still in the wheel. “We’d been hanging out. I spent the whole night before that rally awake, laughing with you over how little misogyny and homophobia make sense, instead of pissed and miserable. I… kind of thought you’d figured me out, and that’s why you pulling that particular prank seemed reasonable?”</p><p>“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, and he can’t. “Oh. My god.” The second he’d gone down on one knee he’d realized his mistake, his sleep-deprived response to Enjolras in a social justice panic. He’d thought Enjolras would turn away, but instead he’d taken up the flag. With <em>Grantaire</em>, of all people.</p><p>Grantaire had been <em>ecstatic</em>, illuminated, <em>ascended</em>, basking in Enjolras’ smile and—yeah, a million flashbulbs. He’d hardly believed his luck. Later, he’d beaten himself down for believing it for even a second.</p><p>“To be honest,” says Enjolras, “when I finally took the flag, I’d forgotten we were at a rally and I needed a gay couple at all? And then there were—cameras.” Enjolras and his intense focus. Only one thing at a time.</p><p>“<em>Oh my god</em>, of course you did,” Grantaire gasps, and doubles over, and heaves in air. Laughs both when he breathes in and out. “Enjolras, I fucking <em>pined</em>. A year! And a half!”</p><p>“A relevant point is that I <em>also</em> desperately wanted you but thought it was fake, the entire time.”</p><p>“Uh uh. No,” Grantaire huffs, wiping a tear from his eye, unsure if it’s mirthful or real or something else entirely, “I claim the suffering award.” There’s a rebuff of <em>being miserable is not a competition!</em> and Grantaire ignores it. “I’m the one who fell in love with you twice, <em>and</em> the one who fell in love with you first.”</p><p>All Enjolras says is an abrupt: “I need to drive.”</p><p>“You’ve proven debating me takes very little brainpower—“</p><p>“I need to <em>focus</em>,” Enjolras clarifies, sounding almost desperate. “You just said you loved me.” Um. Grantaire did do that. He remembers it very clearly. He—maybe has mostly said it in his head before. “Grantaire, I’ll fully admit you’ve loved me longer, but years is still a long time, and I…” His jaw works. “You’re the one who wouldn’t stop talking about the <em>tension</em>.”</p><p>“Uh,” says Grantaire, blinking at him, his clenched grip on the wheel and resolute forward gaze. At another time he might’ve interpreted this as the guy about to blow a blood vessel, but now he— “Holy <em>shit</em>! We’re getting it on when we get back.” Enjolras grunts disapprovingly. Something that sounds like <em>with your consent </em>and also a <em>getting it on?</em> “Okay, okay, we’re—“ it sounds ridiculous, even in his head, not because Grantaire doesn’t want it but he’s never—“we’re going to make love.”</p><p>“<em>Driving</em>,” Enjolras reminds him tersely.</p><p>Grantaire slides down in his seat, stares out the window at the road whipping by. “Won’t distract you,” he hums, “I’ll just sit here and… ride.”</p><p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras groans, and he puts a hand over Enjolras’ on the gear shift.</p><p>“I’m freaking out a little,” he confides.</p><p>“Right there with you,” Enjolras says softly, but when Grantaire rubs a thumb over his knuckles, a smile curls up, slow.</p><p>“We’re going to,” Grantaire says. “And maybe it’ll be terrible, because I’m probably going to get off just watching you open the bedroom door, but—but I love you.”</p><p>“And we’ll try again,” Enjolras affirms. “We’re not going to give up on each other. We’re done with that.”</p><p>“Sir, you’re <em>driving</em>,” Grantaire reminds him, to the surging flutter of his own heart, and he can’t wait until they get home.</p>
<hr/><p>“Bedrooms are overrated,” Enjolras tells him between kisses.</p><p>“Being,” he huffs, “indoors isn’t, though—okay, okay—“</p><p>Somehow, they manage to get through the front door after only a few minutes of blind, distracted fumbling.</p><p>“Kick it,” Grantaire huffs. Enjolras makes a valiant if distracted effort, so the door doesn’t quite shut, and Grantaire laughs and presses Enjolras into it until it <em>clicks</em> closed to their satisfaction. “You like me pushing you around?”</p><p>“I like it when you’re comfortably confident,” Enjolras confesses. “After the accident you came onto me so much, do you understand how—“</p><p>Surging forward on his tiptoes, Grantaire kisses him hard. Fumbles a hand past him to turn the lock, when the <em>thunk</em> of Enjolras’ hips against the wood remind him it’s there.</p><p>“Shoes,” Enjolras reminds him softly when they have to break apart to breathe, and Grantaire kicks his to the side.</p><p>“I got you,” Grantaire tells him, and starts high. Undoing the buttons of his red coat, lifting it off his shoulders, touching his forehead to each shoulderblade before continuing. Tugs the red gloves off, reverent, presses a kiss to the palms. “Remember when I got you these?”</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras says simply, breathlessly. “This Christmas. You said they were all-natural and locally sourced.”</p><p>“I knitted them,” Grantaire confesses. “I know how much you hate tags on your clothes, and I bothered that sweet older gentlemen who lives upstairs for like three months until he taught me how to stop dropping stitches. I shoved my face in 20 skeins of fairtrade yarn until I found the best red one. They almost kicked me out of the market stall. I—”</p><p>Grantaire doesn’t get to finish. Their mouths are hot. Their teeth click. Neither of them care.</p><p>“<em>Shoes</em>,” Grantaire says, finally, and they separate long enough for him to kneel, to unlace and pull. When he’s done, Enjolras pulls him up by one hand, straight into a hug.</p><p>“Grantaire,” he says. “There’s <em>so much</em>.”</p><p>For his part, Grantaire has what feels like a hundred years of fantasies. It was this moment, this <em>we’re about to</em>, the precipice, that he hadn’t imagined. How does he jump?</p><p>“I know,” Grantaire says. “Trust me.”</p><p>“I do.” Enjolras squeezes. “Trust you.”</p><p>“Our dirty talk is ethical sourcing of goods and love confessions,” Grantaire whispers. “You dork.”</p><p>“I’ll show you goods,” Enjolras promises, and Grantaire <em>has</em> to laugh at that, has to bury his face in Enjolras’ shoulder and drag them backwards in a stumbling four-legged mess. When they make it—finally—to the bed, when he tumbles back in a sprawl as his knees hit the mattress—</p><p>“Condoms?” He breathes. “Oh, fuck, do we have condoms and lube in this chastity chapel of pining?”</p><p>“I do,” Enjolras says, falling to bounce on both elbows above him, lowering in for a kiss. “Plenty.”</p><p>And that’s—that’s fine, it’s not like their relationship was real, but it’s the first tendril of uncertainty Grantaire’s felt now—</p><p>“Bought them when you started coming over every night,” Enjolras confesses. Which—Grantaire hadn’t, but Grantaire can be a pessimist. “I mean, I had a million supplies lying around from when Courf and I lived together, but I got more because I figured some might be expired and he’s got the weirdest flavors of—“</p><p>“If you don’t have root beer flavor I’m leaving,” Grantaire threatens, “I have standards. Really terrible standards.”</p><p>Instead of laughing, Enjolras says, “you’re not leaving.”</p><p><em>Oh</em>. “No,” Grantaire agrees, and Enjolras hitches his legs up, kisses him so deep he’s going to sink boneless into the mattress. He wraps his legs around Enjolras’ waist, locks them behind his spine. The poor sucker’s going down with him.</p><p>“Mm, mm, get the supplies or we’re not going to manage it,” he finally gasps.</p><p>“Don’t get up,” Enjolras commands.</p><p>“You’re promoting sloth!” Grantaire shouts at him as he stumbles off into the bathroom—who the hell keeps that stuff only in the <em>bathroom</em>, like it’s some rarely-used toiletry item you have to dig out from beneath your shaving cream, how did he not know Enjolras did this, why is he not even surprised that it still make him tingle, and— “What the <em>hell</em>.”</p><p>“What?” Enjolras says, without shame, throwing not one, but <em>three</em> bottles and a pile of foil packets on the bed. “I want us to be comfortable.”</p><p>“It’s sex, not a slip-n-slide,” Grantaire grins, but he drops his head back to the mattress, luxuriates in it. Enjolras loves him. Wants him. Enjolras thinks they need <em>multiple</em> rounds worth of supplies. “Come here?”</p><p>Well, they don’t use it all, but Grantaire thinks they make their best effort. The hardest part is separating long enough to whisper how they want it, to slide a hand up to hold a knee or run fingertips up a thigh to pull at hips, to put themselves in the places they desire without getting distracted by the whole of everything.</p><p>“Tease,” Grantaire chokes out on a grind, and Enjolras nips his earlobe and says,</p><p>“I don’t tease. Ready?”</p><p>Grantaire doesn’t need to tell him yes more than once, but he does. He tells Enjolras <em>yes</em> and <em>please</em> and also—</p><p>“Why’d you <em>wait</em>,” Grantaire begs, and it’s almost about the way Enjolras hasn’t taken him yet, but not quite.</p><p>“Thought you didn’t,” Enjolras pants, “like me.”</p><p>“Liked you too much,” Grantaire admits. “I—I—<em>Enj</em>—I thought I wasn’t allowed.”</p><p>“You’re allowed,” Enjolras tells him, and they’re here, they’re together, one body, it’s happening, “you’re welcomed, I love you. I love you.”</p><p>“Love you too,” Grantaire promises, holding tighter. “Then and now. Always.”</p><p>“Then and now,” Enjolras breathes, nudging their mouths together naturally with every thrust, every shake, “always.”</p><p>And maybe—maybe Grantaire would question that, he surely would, but Enjolras told a Grantaire with no memories he loved him, too.</p><p>“The whole—<em>ah</em>—time,” he sighs, half-dazed, and that could be it, he’d come from that idea even if they were a table apart at the Musain, but their movements slow.</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras says, and the pressure is slow and careful and directed so perfectly, “yes, Grantaire.”</p><p>“Come here,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras mouths <em>I’m here</em>, into his pulse point. But he’s not, Grantaire needs him closer, he needs every gap between them sealed, melted together with their heat. “Like this,” Grantaire tries to show him, tries to drag and fill, “Enjolras, <em>Enjolras</em>—“ And like this, it’s easy for them both to understand.  To know. To pass forgiveness and memory and the future and just be here, together. To be known. To be loved.</p>
<hr/><p>After, Grantaire manages to quietly cuddle for a while, as Enjolras drifts in and out of sleep. But needs must. So he says: “I have a suggestion for our soon-to-be-joint bookshelf.” Enjolras doesn’t even open his eyes. Unfortunately for him, he smiles. Gives him away. “Enj.”</p><p>“Mm hm.”</p><p>“Kama sutra,” Grantaire whispers, “unless you wanna get off to Rosseau? We can reserve my mouth for reading, and the rest of me—“</p><p>“I need ten minutes,” Enjolras groans. “The speaker requests a recess to recover.”</p><p>“Motion denied,” says Grantaire, grinning, “I believe in the speaker. Please take the stand. Rise for the people.”</p><p>“Neither of us are young enough for this, the memories are back,” Enjolras complains, but he still rolls, starts kissing down Grantaire’s bare chest. Brave. A true hero. “But I’ll do the best for my person. What else are you asking of me?”</p><p>“Mm,” says Grantaire. “I’ll send you a letter. On my preferred positions—<em>fuck, fuck</em>—on the big issues—oh,” he sucks in air, helps Enjolras maneuver, “that is a new position, okay.”</p><p>“As your rep I’ll take your issues to the floor if I have to,” Enjolras says earnestly.</p><p>“And the wall,” Grantaire agrees. “We are trying a wall, and definitely your stupidly big shower, where are the gallons of lube we had earlier—“</p><p>Eponine calls after round 3. “Do not,” she says, “do <em>not</em> hit your head on the headboard and lose any memories. I’m calling to make sure you’re alive.”</p><p>“Super alive,” Grantaire confirms. “Possibly the most alive I’ve ever been. Enjolras, on the other hand…” Yep, napping on Grantaire’s chest, unresponsive even when Grantaire blows gently at a rogue curl on his forehead.</p><p>“Gross, have fun,” Eponine says.</p><p>“Aren’t you going to tell me to be safe?”</p><p>“Oh, you think Mr. Free-STI-Panels-For-All doesn’t have his entire results history printed and bound? In the past few months were you even apart for long enough to get the opportunity to sleep around?”</p><p>“Uhh,” says Grantaire, sated little hamster wheel in his head turning oh-so-slowly. “<em>Huh</em>.”</p><p>“Feelings, gross,” Eponine repeats. “Bye, loverboy,” and then she hangs up.</p><p>“Enj,” he whispers frantically, flinging his phone onto the nightstand, “Enj, wake up, we’re both clean.”</p><p>Enjolras groans something completely unintelligible into his sternum, and then, like the god he is, lifts his head, eyes serious but lidded low. “We’re sleeping all day tomorrow,” he mumbles.</p><p>“Absolutely,” Grantaire lies, because he suspects they’ll still be doing this. “Midnight kiss?”</p><p>“Mm,” says Enjolras, sounding delightfully grumpy. “We don’t need excuses or a schedule to kiss.”</p><p>No, that’s long gone.</p><p>“Just because we want to, then,” Grantaire says. “Because we’ve wanted to for a long time.”</p><p>“Yes,” Enjolras says, and slides up to kiss him, to grasp and hold. “Show me. What else you want. It’s important.”</p><p>“Gonna change the world by rocking mine?”</p><p>“That’s the plan,” Enjolras says firmly. “Show me everything.”</p><p>“That’ll take a while,” Grantaire warns, but all they’ve got now is time.</p>
<hr/><p>The only thing better than frantic up-all-night sex is lazy morning sex. Well, at least for now. There’s a range to be had, and Grantaire is going to have to sample it all.</p><p>“Okay, but if you lay down, I feel like you’ll go back to sleep.”</p><p>“I am <em>not</em>,” says Enjolras, who is extremely warm, “going back to sleep like this.”</p><p>It’s a fair point. “Still, you’re ready to pass out. I’ll do the work, okay?”</p><p>Enjolras makes his <em>but equality!</em> face, which Grantaire had really been hoping not to see in bed. (That’s a lie. Grantaire wants to see all his facial expressions in bed.) But Grantaire leans down, and slots their mouths together. They go so deep, so powerfully slow, that even though all they do is murmur and breathe and capture gasps from their lips, it feels loud. Louder, even, than—than whatever noise they let out last night. And last night—well. Neither of them are particularly quiet people.</p><p>Grantaire remembers assuming, that first day of his amnesia, that the sex must’ve been fantastic. He’d received no solid answer, then, but he has one now. For different reasons than he would’ve been able to fathom at the time... the sex is <em>very</em> good.                     </p><p>Later, Grantaire muffles into his neck, “this instantly knocking you out surprises me.”</p><p>“Hm, why?”</p><p>“Just kind of always imagined you’d jump back up and rush out the door to start agitating, instead of soaking in the hedonism.”</p><p>“I fight for people’s right to live their lives without oppression,” Enjolras says. “To try to be happy. At some point I accepted that meant I could try to be happy, too.”</p><p>“What convinced you?” Grantaire asks.</p><p>“I thought you had your memories,” Enjolras mutters, and it sends a curling electric current through his heart.</p><p>“<em>Me</em>?”</p><p>Sometimes it’s easy to forget. For all he’s changed for love, he’s also changed Enjolras in return.</p><p>“I don’t think my body can handle any more romantic revelations,” he just chuckles in reply, half hoarse, and gathers Grantaire up as best he can. “Go to <em>sleep</em>.”</p><p>Grantaire can do that. For Enjolras, Grantaire could do just about anything.</p>
<hr/><p>“Thank <em>God</em>,” is all Courfeyrac says, when he’s the first to arrive at their house party the next night. (Or the same? Days are for people on a normal night of sleep.) “I thought we were going to have to start looking for a program to send your unresolved sexual tension to, it was getting to be school age.”</p><p>“You didn’t <em>know</em> it was unresolved,” Enjolras disputes.</p><p>“I always know,” says Courfeyrac wisely, even though he did not. “Happy birthday, Enj. For you, I’ve made a very special playlist, and with recent events I’m inspired to—“</p><p>“No,” says Grantaire, and has to practically chase him to the speaker system, roaring with laughter, “no, no, no—“</p><p><em>Birthday Sex</em> is still playing on loop when the rest of the ABC arrives. It takes both Bossuet and Musichetta to carry in a 12-foot long roll of paper, with Joly practically vibrating behind them.</p><p>The look Eponine gives him is shit-eating. Grantaire has to—“what is that?”</p><p>“You know what it is!” Joly shouts joyously.</p><p>“Oh,” says Grantaire, “fuck,” and then a poster the size of their wall is being unfurled, complete with award-winning and too-personal displays of gay love. Another year or two, and he might reenact this scene. The words he says when he gets on one knee will be a little different.</p><p>“Hmm,” says Enjolras. “You know, I have a newfound appreciation for this picture.” <em>He could be serious. </em>No, he’s both <em>completely genuine </em>and at the same time<em> making a joke. </em>Wow<em>. </em>That’s—not at all fair. Luckily, some of Grantaire’s tried and true survival tactics will never fade.</p><p>He’s a changed man, but he can still troll with the best of them. “We needed new wallpaper, didn’t we?”</p><p>“This reaction is less fun than your usual,” Jehan murmurs.</p><p>“Where are the <em>flames</em>,” Musichetta translates.</p><p>“Bring on the flames!” Bossuet chants.</p><p>His boyfriend barely seems to notice. “For the two-year anniversary,” Enjolras says, practically offhand, like it’s some detail he almost forgot, “they actually asked if we’d come give another interview.”</p><p>“It could help to establish permanence in the face of a lot of the negative stereotypes surrounding…” Combeferre trails off, probably to Courfeyrac’s frantic gesturing. “Oh. I see how that might not be ideal for you two right now.”</p><p>Right. Combeferre and Courfeyrac… also know. In typical fashion, Enjolras had been so relieved to tell them, to make himself known as soon as both he and Grantaire allowed it.</p><p>The interview? He suspects it'll be so, so different from the last time. <em>Better</em>.</p><p>“Guys,” Grantaire says. “We actually have something to say. And then—and then, we eat cake.”</p><p>“Is it red velvet cake?” Marius asks. “With—“</p><p>“Cherries,” say at least three other group members.</p><p>“Yes, Marius,” Grantaire answers, with great dignity. “I did make my boyfriend his favorite cake. For his birthday. It’s unheard of. The award presentation for best boyfriend ever will begin shortly, and completely overshadow his birthday party.”</p><p>“Sexy awards,” Courfeyrac whispers. To combat this, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ hand, and summons up what bravery he’s got.</p><p>“Guys,” he says, again. “Ever since that photo got taken, Enjolras and I were pretending to date.”</p><p>“What?” Feuilly blinks, which is a reasonable human reaction.</p><p>“Whoa,” says Bahorel, appreciative of the drama.</p><p>“Oh,” says Musichetta, “my,” says Bossuet, “gosh,” says Joly.</p><p>“But you’ve <em>kissed</em>,” Marius gapes, “a <em>lot</em>,” and bless his fucking heart. Cosette presses her own kiss to his cheek.</p><p> “It’s cool,” says Grantaire, instead of an explanation. “We’re together for real now, because I love him,” deep breath, “and he loves me. Just thought our friends should know. Now: let us eat cake!”</p><p>A general cheer goes up.</p><p>“The original quote,” says Enjolras, ducking his head, a smile flickering over his face, “is ‘let them eat brioche.’”</p><p>“C’mere, birthday boy,” he slings an arm around Enjolras’ waist, goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, “you know brioche is for the rich.”</p><p>“I’m rich in some of the most important things,” Enjolras puts forward, which is his way of speaking fondly of love, as he looks around the crowded room and squeezes Grantaire’s hip, and god, Grantaire loves that too.</p><p>“Uh huh. Distribute the wealth,” he murmurs. <em>We’ll all be happy, if we’re together.</em> Enjolras looks both like he’s going to begin a speech about camaraderie and also maybe why emotional wealth still is no excuse for anyone to deprive someone of their hard-earned labor wages, but—</p><p>“Cut the googly eyes and cut the <em>cake</em>,” cajoles Eponine, who probably hasn’t eaten sugar since her shift earlier this morning. He’ll hear Enjolras’ opinion later. He’s looking forward to it.</p><p>“We’re coming, we’re coming,” Enjolras concedes with a smile, and it’s a <em>we</em>. When they enter the kitchen, Bossuet is very carefully manipulating a match, and Bahorel clicks the lights off.</p><p>“You all don’t need to—“ Enjolras begins, and is immediately drowned out by a half-giggled, half-shouted:</p><p>“<em>Happy birthday to you! Happy—“</em></p><p>There are quirky, raucous additions to this rendition of the happy birthday song, courtesy of everyone, but it does eventually meander to its end.</p><p>“Make a wish!” Cosette cheers. “A good one.”</p><p>“I don’t make wishes,” Enjolras says very seriously, “I make change.”</p><p>“<em>Somebody</em> should use this excess wishing magic Enjolras doesn’t require,” Grantaire offers, and Enjolras tightens their fingers where they’re laced, palm to palm, and declares:</p><p>“You.” A kiss to his cheek in the candlelit dark, surrounded by friends, and Grantaire thinks, <em>I don’t need a wish either</em>. Enjolras takes in a deep breath. Then: “Make a wish. Don’t forget.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” says Grantaire. “I remember.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*will smith display pose* IT'S DONE<br/>so. many. conversations. so. much. dialogue.<br/>what's missing in the Grantaire POV is the best reaction to learning their relationship was fake, which is 100% Courfeyrac and Combeferre<br/>Combeferre, gravely: "this. has so many. implications. and potential issues"<br/>Courfeyrac, screaming: "THE DRAMA. THE INTRIGUE. THE-- WAIT DOES THIS MEAN YOU HAVEN'T BEEN HONEYMOONING FOR THE LAST TWO YEARS WE HAVE TO FIX THIS IMMEDIATELY"<br/>yes the triumvirate is all above 6'. yes R's crew is all short. yes sometimes they meet spontaneously while out in public and passerby witness this lofty group of grad students immediately disintegrate into gooey friendship and romance when facing this tattooed, terribly dressed pack of short people and they're like wtf<br/>everyone.<br/>y'all really went the distance with me and binches i appreciate that. i appreciate you<br/>best wishes, darlings. comments or screaming or anything else is appreciated too<br/>Here's my <a href="https://serinesaccade.tumblr.com/"> tumblr </a>. I suspect I will write more for les mis at some point but i don't know what or when or how so just. Ta ta for now. Much love.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*flips hands towards story* thanks for suffering thru that<br/>it's angsty RN but it will get better I promise. I'm a fluff writer 100%.<br/>I really appreciate all comments and feedback. like. i cry with every character.<br/>love and safety to all in this crazy time</p></blockquote></div></div>
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